The Black Plague of The 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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A low pitched buzzing noise shook its way through the congested streams of air and smoke in the forest, the sound of the black shadow advancing from the core of the swamp send shiver's running through the limb's of it's flora, the native Hist. The sun waned somewhere beyond the vast canopies of swaying tree's that dominate the horizon, it was getting hard to see anything but the pinpricks of light in the distant settlement of Longmont. The only sound that can be heard over the din of the black shadow is the sound of two feet beating furiously against the sodden ground.

A small lithe body flashes through the undergrowth, flattening plants and skipping curled root, ducking under snapping plants and curling vines. He run's for his life, his hunter unseen -- save for a black shadow scraping across the landscape. His tail flicks out, helping him stay balanced, never before has his life depended so much on something so simple as balance.

Closer to the village, his red scales shine in the final few minute of the sunlight that breaks through the well defended canopy of leaves, splashes of green leaf like patterns can be seen on his world weary face. He craves quiet, tranquillity, his feet pounding against the ground drag memories from his mind. Thing's that happened only hours before -- his brothers and sisters drinking from the Hist at their naming ceremony, the tribal drum beating that abruptly stopped as the newly named turned on their friend's and family, biting and clawing, eating… killing.

He didn't know if anybody got away, all he knew was he was told to run -- so he ran.

At last, the town is in sight, it's rickety wooden buildings standing the test of time against the swamp -- each one looking more like a natural fixture than a man made structure, thanks to the amount of plant life and moss that had grown over them in the years.

Cheerful faces greet the outsider as he run's frantically toward them waving his arms screaming for them to turn and run, many laugh and some look shocked, but none of them move. Not even an inch. He darts through; squeezing past the mass of bodies, many Argonians but a few Imperial and Dunmer, slavers or drug smugglers no doubt. Not that it mattered.

As he passed through her heard one of them cry "Flesh flies!" No doubt referring to the vast shadow of insects that followed in the small Argonians wake. Panic shot up in the air like thunder crackling through rain drops, people ran inside or dived under the tiered housing, which was raised off the floor due to flood weather. The small Argonian said a prayer for them in his native Hist, that they be spared a slow death.

He knew the flesh flies where the least of his problems.

Then -- just as he reached the far side of town, an arm reached out and grabbed him roughly by the waist, word's where said to him in a calm reassuring voice but he barely understood them, the only thing he noticed was the smoothness of the skin.

He was pulled inside -- forced under a bed while the door was barricaded. He didn't dare look out, tear swam between the scaled eye lids.

Then they came. The insects passed over within moments, ignoring citizens of Longmont. But within moment's more noise came, the noise of hundreds of feet running -- hunting, screaming.

The Argonian boy closed his eyes and whispered in his native tongue as the screams turned into slaughter.



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Rules:

1. No vampires.

2. No were-critters, just too uber.

3. Weapons are allowed this time, but nothing enchanted -- nothing high grade such as mythril/glass/ebony/daedric etc.

4. Armour is allowed at your own risk.

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.

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 Sheets:




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.)
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: (Again be realistic.)

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 be starting in Longmont.



Objectives,

1. Investigate the attack on Longmont

Name: (Has no name, as of yet. Explained later.)
Age: 18
Race: Person of the root (Argonian)
Gender: Male


General Appearance: Around 5'9 in height, short by most Argonian standard's but still growing -- he's light and agile, his body a canvas of hardened muscles that pay tribute to the harshness of his homeland. He is considered a freak by Argonian standards, having none of the bright coloured pigmentations of his brothers and sisters who share red and blue and green scales. http://images.elfwood.com/art/d/y/dyoung/snake.jpg(read bellow) across the top half of his torso (back shoulders and upper arms) as well as his head.

Eye colour: Rusted brown.

Clothing/Armour: Wearing nothing more than a ceremonial scaled leather loincloth -- buckled at each side by two broaches carved from were-crocodile teeth -- both covered in a strange fluent looking pattern that could be perceived as writing. On both upper arms he wears armlets made of long thin canines taken from various animals, a similar necklace and be seen around his neck, the only difference being the size of the teeth. All the items belonging to the traditional attire of his villages warriors when attending the naming ceremony. The only item not traditionally worn in his village is a large thick leather belt, found one day when foraging. He does not wear armour however -- being a core dweller he has long since developed callous like scaled, thick plats that span across his back and head, as well as upper arms and shoulders, which act as a natural armour, though it is no stronger than most hardened leather armours.

Weapons/Shield: http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3247/2884487295_9e498ddbde_o.jpg is crude to look at by civilised eyes, but a beautifully crafted weapon in the eyes of his native people -- a sword of sorts made from Hist wood, a long curved katana like blade, the edges inset with row's of teeth torn form the mouths of the many predators of black marsh.
His shield is small, made of his wood and covered in bright feathers, it some what resembles a tortoise shell.

General skills and talents: Adept at tracking and hunting, he knows his way through the interior and exterior of Black marsh but prefers not to traverse it alone, having not completed the hunter trials of his village. He is a capable fisherman and he is fair with a sword -- but not good enough to ensure his survival should he be left to fend for himself. His most surprising talent however is his singing voice -- not something Argonians are famed for.

Personality and temperament: He is a quiet observer, he has been taught since a child to watch and observe -- work out what is happening and what need's to be done in any situation, to look for weaknesses and strengths while searching for opportunities. Because of this he often comes across as closed off and detached from other people. He speaks easily with his native people -- but due to the lack of contact with the outside world his grasp on Aldmeric (English) is basic at best.

Brief History: The child of a hunter warrior of his tribe -- he lived a life of no merits or accomplishments, what else could he do after all, in the swamps of black marsh the best he could hope for was food on he table and a roof to keep the rain out. While his father taught him everything he knew about tracking and hunting, he taught him very little about armed combat in the early years.

He is widely seen as a black sheep in his tribe -- having missed his naming ceremony on two separate occasions, he is the oldest Argonian of his tribe to go un-named. However, neither occasion was his fault, the first time he missed the naming ceremony was when he and his father where separated from the tribe after a month of constant storms -- the second time, he was out hunting only to be taken prisoner by the Naga.


Misc: Is extremely shy around females of his own race, and despises "Smooth skins.", the exception being Orc's.









Name: Marcus Lestallio
Age: Early 30's
Gender: Male
Race: Imperial
Birth sign; The steed

General Appearance: Marcus stands at around 6'0 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 -- A large pair of leather boots and a pair of black cotton pants, cut at the knee to make shorts. When in town he will usually go without a shirt of any kind, but when travelling he wear's a wraparound robe similar to those found in most martial art's.

Weapon: A steel broad sword, his standard issue sword from the legion. He has used it since the day it was given to him and refuses to use another sword.

General Skills and Talents: An ex legionnaire turned gladiator turned smuggler. 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 Marcus 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 meant he was alive for five more minutes.

Brief History: Born to a family with a rich Military and political background Marcus 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 Marcus when he was down, Marcus managed to defend himself and put his opponent down, which of course attracted the fury of S'kravika who had also apparently paid off the second combatant to kill Marcus, 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 an occasional smuggler and enforcer for the local gang boss -- an Argonian named Ten-Toes. Over they years he rose in the ranks and eventually found himself in black marsh, waiting at a drop off point in Longmont, where he would pick up moon sugar to be smuggled north into Morrowind.

Misc: Carried a burlap sack on his back, the contents include a bag of dried meats and a pig skin of water -- the rest of the room is currently occupied by all manner of illegal substances.





IC:


Marcus



The noise passed after ten minutes -- the screams and cries for help replaced by the usual white noise one becomes accustomed to after so many years living in a place like Argonia, which was teeming to the brim with all manner of life. Sweat beaded across the sun kissed brow of the Imperial, who was stood against the front door of his wooden hovel, considering that he didn't have any furniture save for a bed he had no over choice but to brace it.

But whatever attacked Longmont passed his house by like they didn't even know it was there -- he chanced a look out of the window, the town square (if that's what you could call it.) was devoid of life, empty save for the few out of place lump's of what looked like shedded scales and torn clothing.

But Argonian's not shed their scales? He thought to himself, a bead of sweat rolling over his tight lips -- the taste of salt sending saliva flooding through his previously bone dry mouth.

Looking around, he spotted the Argonian he's dragged inside away from what he thought was flesh flies, which just passed over head. He was crammed beneath his bed in the corner of the room.

"What was that?" He asked the Argonian, while he carried on scanning the town from his vantage point behind the thin cloth curtain, he could see movement in a few huts, friendly or not. "Do you know?" he pushed on, looking over to the Argonian under his bed, it's white scales covered in grime and dirt. He'd only met one Albino Argonian before, a Dres Noble's prized slave, Marcus was one of the men investigating claims of illegal slavery at the time.

The Argonian stared back up at him, eyes wide with anxiety -- but not fear. "What was it?" Marcus prodded again, prompting a movement from the Argonian, who opened his mouth and closed it, as if he went to speak but forgot the words.

Slowly he dragged himself from under the bed, watching Marcus' movements wearily -- holding tooth covered sword at the ready to his side. Marcus repeated himself, moving forward's a little while gesturing outside trying to illustrate what he was saying. The Argonian saw this as a sign of hostility and immediately jumped back toward the bed and crouched down low, his thick powerful tail coiling around his calf's as the sword came up to his eye level -- pointing threateningly at Marcus.

"Easy -- Easy now!" Marcus half shouted half choked in surprise. Have held his hand's out, palm's open to show he was unarmed and took a step back, crouching to the Argonian's level. "What's your name?" He asked, earning a confused look.

"Marcus." he said, patting himself on the chest and pointing at himself. "Me, I'm Marcus, whats your name?" he carried on, pointing the Small white Argonian.


"Me --?" The Argonian said, patting himelf on the chest with his free hand in the same way that Marcus did. "Me -- no name."

"Your name is no name?" Marcus asked, almost laughing at the irony.

"I -- No name have I. Hist, drank it I have not." He said, slowly growing more confident with the Imperial, but still chocking to get the words out. "No name." he repeated on final time, still patting himself on the chest.

Marcus just stared -- his look of confusion was evidently picked up by the Argonian who began brandishing his sword toward the window.

"Black Scales." He said simply, naming whatever it was that passed through the village. "Black scales."

The Imperial paused, looking out of the window trying his best to remember what he could from the many book's he'd read on the province of Argonia -- not once had he come across the term Black Scales. They both stood up in unison when some one shouted, a shout of shock and disgust.

"Outside." Marcus said firmly to the Argonian, who followed him as told but muttered under his breath in his native tongue, Marcus couldn't make neither head nor tail's of it. When they stepped outside however they where greeted by a grizzly sight, all around them blood pooled in puddles, some of the curdling red splashes accompanied by a lump of flesh or discarded limb, here and there the odd item of clothing. It didn't take him long to see half devoured bodies along the outskirts of the town "What happened here?" Marcus wondered out loud almost speechless, not really wanting the answer.

"Flesh flies." A surly voice came, a large red and green Argonian said -- Marcus' business partner Sezarh. "Came out of no where, I was back inside my shack soon as I heard them. Never seen them do this much damage before" He added, his accent showing he had grown up since hatching in the northern reaches of Cyrodiil.

"No Flesh flies." The Nameless Argonian said abruptly butting in, obviously picking up the only two words out of Sezarh's sentence that he understood. Pointing around at the blood and gore he said - "Black scales. Must run."

"Who's this?" Shezarh asked bluntly, eying the smaller Argonian with suspicion.

"I dunno, he has no name."

"He-Has-No-Name?" Shezarh repeated as if that was the Argonian's true title.

Before anybody could say any more however; a movement caught all of their attention, stirring at first but then more, the bodies Marcus had assumed to be dead began to crawl along the floor, some pulling themselves up to their mangled feet. Others simply lay their screaming horrifically, blood shooting out of their mouth's in gargled chokes.

"Black Scales." No name repeated.






OOC: Bad post, but its 4am. I'll make up for it, feel free to post if you want to -- interact with each other if your not in the town and on the way, otherwise join Marcus and company in the town square, feel free to RP npc's of your own (such as shezarh) if you so wish, just fair warning, they wont be alive for long unless you decide to submit a character sheet for them. Oh yeah, these zombies are from the 2nd category on the list -- the slower weaker types. Unarmoured and weaponless since they are simple townfolk, but still hungry. Enjoy.

Town Square:
The tides of screaming and commotion had passed. Norwin had been inside the local inn at the time of the flesh flies arrival, he had only just sat at the bar when a crowd of townsfolk bursted through the tavern door. Norwin dismissed the commotion, instead deciding to check for any poor souls who may have survived the attack. No doubt mangled by the ravenous insects. The ranger bagan unbuckling his herbs when the crowd in the streets began to scream.

Broken figures began standing up throughout the carnage, some missing entire sections of their bodies. The ones still remaining on the ground began expelling dark liquid from their throats. Blood, bile and other fluids ran thick through the natural waterways of the town.

Norwin had only one thing in his mind, and anyone who knew him present would have been shocked by what he said.

" By the nine, protect us."

A crowd of survivors bursted up the steps and began rushing the door of the tavern, one of the largest structures in town. Some of the others ran into local shops and businesses.

However, Norwin was quite concerned not only for his own safety but those of the people running to the door. In this sort of chaos many could get hurt, trampled or even killed. The lithe bosmer turned, and being closest to the door charged up the steps, bursting the door open and attempting to bustle the people in and and unstrap his bow, awkwardly all at the same time.

He attempted to shout over the hysteria, and those who were valiantly helping the townsfolk (PERHAPS THATS YOU PLAYER CHARACTERS)

" Prepare to barricade the doors!"




In one of the most desperate times of his life he felt like no one had heard him.

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


General Appearance: 6'4" in height, 188 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 even thicker cloth wraps around his calves, waist, biceps, and abdomen. Leather vambraces, a very thick Leather Vest, and a thick cloth tasset as well as a hood sewn into his vest. He also lately wears a sort of thick cloth robe with a rope belt, the robe is just a cloak with sleeves sewn in, and each fiber was rubbed with wax to act as a rain coat and insulator.

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.

Weapons: Long Tail always carries his set of 3 javelins, they're quite thin and about 3 ft long each, carried in a leather satchel on his belt that is decorated with strips of hist wood that are carved into different shapes and forms native to Argonia. He also carries a very crude 3 ft curved iron sword with no guard, the grip is simply wrapped leather and fibers from reeds.

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 as well as the borders of Elsweyr, Morrowind, and Cyrodiil. He married a nice Argonian girl and has two hatchlings.

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

IC: Longmont was the destination of Long Tail's current business journey. It had been two weeks since he lost his job as a prison cook, after a break out that he had helped with, he was forced to run back to the safety of his home in the swamps outside of Blackrose. His business was now simple trade, he was headed to Longmont to deliver a few bottles of rice-wine to some drug lord. It wasn't much, but apparently hard to come by in the swamps. He was now trudging along the crude, muddy, pathetic excuse for a road. His heavy feet and long, thick walking stick made a squishy 'spludge' noise as they sunk into the cold mud.

It had begun to drizzle when Long Tail came upon the gory sight. It wasn't but a half-dozen acres outside of Longmont that he had smelled the foul odor. He quickened his pace, now noticing the small slip-streams running red with what he guessed was blood. The thick brown satchel on his back, secured by a rope was bouncing up and down, the bottles of rice-wine were sloshing around like. Into his view came the disgusting site. Ripped bodies, limbs, and gore. A few huts were burning, screams could still be heard further into the city. Long Tail shuddered and gagged when he saw an Imperial man stumble across the ground, his right arm hanging by tendons from his elbow.

"What happened here!?" He finally shouted, the Imperial turned his head, revealing a scorched face and missing eye. He began a shambling jog towards Long Tail, gurgling and moaning as his arm bounced on its loose attachments. What the hell, I can't help him, what is he doing? Long Tail thought as he panicked.

"Stop right there, I can't help you. Please don't come closer!" The tall Argonian yelled, he was now in a state of paranoia and adrenaline, his staff raised as the wounded man came lunging at Long Tail. In a quick sweep, Long Tail whacked the Imperial on the side of the head with his staff, snapping it. The Imperial fell over.

"Azura, what have I done, he is dead." But the Imperial moaned, and got back to his feet. Long Tail was backing away, and then sprinting as fast as possible, trying to find the large hut in the town square. Everywhere he turned, he saw something moving in the shadows, another gory figure, another something that wasn't friendly. Maybe Arennas was still alive, an old Dunmer who had been an Ordinator for years in the service of the Tribunal. Surely he was alive.

Long Tail found the town center, bloody, as was the rest of the city. He also noticed three figures off to his left, More of them?, Long Tail thought. But no, these ones spoke, and so they were friends in this nightmare. Long Tail drew one of his javelins, and jogged through the coagulated mess.

"What in the nine hells has happened?!" He asked, out of breath, even for the tall and strong Argonian who had killed people before, this was a slaughter that no man could bear to witness.

OOC: This was a flavorless, terrible post. But I'm on Nyquil right now and just want to sleep. See ya'll on the morrow.

I might make a second character tomorrow, the Argonian speaking to Josiah.


Character Sheet

Name: Josiah Mouroun

Age: 31

Race: Redguard

Gender: Male

General Appearance:

A clean shaven head and face, his head a muscular oval with ears and deep brown eyes fitting on them perfectly. His tone is moderate for a Ra Gada, being the normal light brown. You can tell the man is in shape having a well defined muscle tone around his body. He stands at 5'10 being the height of an average man, but weighs in at 180 pounds. He is stocky and solid, his physical shape required by his profession. His hands hold scars more scars on them than any other part of his body, due to the fierce thorns of the swamp. His hardened hands allow him to grip anything well. With this, Josiah is more fortunate than many in this plague having the physical speed and strength to make an attempt at surviving, rather than being overcome before having a chance. Though he is experienced hunter, he is just about to leave his prime at the age of 31. His body is beginning to go into the next stage, and this may hurt him.

Psychological Profile:

Josiah is a serious, well respected, hard working man. He finds many jokes immature, though some are humorous in his mind. He doesn't respect people who always try to get a "free ride". When he sets his mind to something, he does it, but he often takes decisions into deep consideration. He often tries to see the opinions of others, but if the subject or decision is something he knows fluently, he will go his own way. He is laid back in a sense that is someone does not agree with him, he will not make a big deal or grudge over it. After this, if someone is to go into a fatal situation, he would not risk his own life to save them do to their foolishness. In other cases, he would. He lives by the quote "If a man has nothing to die for, he is not fit to live." When he looks at failure, he takes it into a deep perspective. He learns from failure, and he realizes it is needed to improve on anything in life. Now, he knows failure means death, and he knows if he fails this time?there won't be any improvement.



Weapons:

Josiah carries an oak bow at the length of between 3.5 and 4 feet. It is mounted on front with iron and leather is attached to that to allow more gripping of the bow. The oak has been prepared through wetting and drying and is flexible swamp wood, capable of bending. A thick linen-wool string is used to propel the arrows. He carries a leather quiver over his back, holding 20 or so light iron-tipped arrows. As a close range weapon, he carries an iron machete, mainly used to chop brush in the swamp (but however can be deadly to anyone or anything). He carries around a small dagger-knife, used to cut strings and other small things. Other than these basic "hunting" tools, he tries to travel lightly; due to the fact agility is needed in the swamp.

Apparel:

Josiah wears a green-wool shirt, followed by light-brown (almost tan) linen pants. His hands are bound with fingerless leather gloves to give him more grip on his bow. He wears rough leather-padded shin guards, as well as leather bracers to protect his joints from possible injury. Although not protected very well, he does not need to be burdened with armor in the swamp, as it is not necessary for hunting.

Miscellaneous Possessions:

Josiah carries around a few lockpicks for anything he may find in the forest, as well as a few coins (these have no value). He also carries a small sack which hangs from his belt, holding pieces of metal in which one would use to build a trap with. He also carries another additional small sack filled with strings for his bow, and another filled with hooks and such things. These are very small, not burdening the man.

Miscellaneous Information:

One advantage Josiah has as a hunter is that he knows some of the surrounding area, due to the fact he has hunted in it in the past. Of course, his knowledge of the forest and its animals don't matter now?there is a new animal.

Class name: Professional Hunter

Class skills: Trapping, Marksmanship, Survival skills, Cutting, Climbing, Forestry-landscape knowledge

Class description:

A professional hunter, skilled in the arts of hunting animals and trapping along with having decent knowledge of the area; with all of these skills used for hunting animals, the hunter will have to manipulate these skills. He is no longer hunting animals- there is a new animal in the forest ? and it is hunting him.

Bio:

Josiah grew up in Nibenay, and was raised as a hunter by his father through childhood. His interest in hunting drove him to practice it. From the time he was a teenage boy, he went to hunt with his father. When it came time for him to become a man, he began hunting more frequently, selling many of his hides as he had always done as a boy. He developed into what was the town hunter, like any man in any other city who hunted for a living. Now, he has traveled to Black Marsh to explore its creatures, especially the Dreugh, which Josiah finds more interesting than many creatures. Josiah is faced with something else entirely. Now the hunter has become the hunted; now the hunter is the prey. There is a new animal in the forest. He now has to think like the hunted animal, getting the opposite end of the stick of his original profession.

IC:


Josiah, The Tavern

"So, Cyrodil?"

An orange-scaled Argonian peered across the table at the Redguard traveler. He appeared to be some type of hunter too, although he wore a bit more padding than Josiah himself. He was more of a scout or bandit looking type. Josiah looked more like an Imperial forester than anything with the exception of the iron plates they usually wore on their shins and the occasional gauntlets. It was good for him to talk to someone from Black Marsh, especially a hunter like this lizard. He had read countless books on the life of Black Marsh before coming here, trying to be well prepared for the creatures he would take on. The same old game in the Niben region grew tiresome after a while, whether it was a deer, a cougar, a bear, or the occasional wolf. He had traveled to other places before, but the ideal game was in the Niben region. Of course, the creatures of Black Marsh were a different story, where you could hold up your trophy with both hands and say "I dared to cross into the marsh, and I have claimed my prize."

"Yes, mostly Cyrodil. I've hunted Dreugh southeast of Bravil once with a friend of mine. You've got to watch out for those buggers, especially if you're alone on the road. Up in the Niben border, they usually decide to avoid the roads. It's tough killing the things; you definitely don't want one of them chasing you..."

The Argonian looked back up at the Redguard, seeming to understand his view. He said in his rather slick Argonian accent,

"They're much easier to kill if you have a spear. Bows one thing, but you have to get them in the right spot and with enough power. Belly is soft enough, it's just hard to get through with all those little pincers in front...if you use a spear, well, it makes things easier. It's generally more powerful if you can use it right, but the main thing is the range. It goes farther. Ever noticed why the Argonians down here hunt Dreugh with spears? I feel sorry for some of those new legion men sent down. They run at those things with their petty swords. If it wasn't for their armor, they'd have no chance at survival...luckily, some of the Dreugh aren't as aggressive and they'll back off-"

The Redguard put in his own piece of opinion, literally finishing the sentence.

"But you're unlucky when you find a mean one, a big, mean one..."

The Argonian nodded and muttered back.

"Exactly. So, Josiah is your name?"

"Yes, and yours?"

"An-Zaw, if you can't pronounce it, call me Orange-Scale. Lots of the Imperials call me that around here."

Josiah nodded.

"I'll just stick with An-Zaw. You'll have to teach me how to use a spear. I've got some experience as a boy, just never used one that much. Bow has always seemed more valuable, especially with the deer-"

"Well, there aren't any deer in this marsh. You'll find more things that try to kill you than run from you. You aren't as much of a hunter here, but sometimes you are the one being hunted..."

Hunted?

A buzzing noise was heard, the Orc at the bar yelled out something, and someone slammed the tavern door shut as a black cloud emerged into the city, going as quickly as it had come. Josiah's head turned to the door, as the buzzing noise grew louder, and then faded out of sight.

"What was that?"

An-Zaw's lizard eyes blinked in a thick, slow manner. He then jumped out of his chair.

"Flesh flies..."

"I thought they only stayed in the wilderness from what I've read. Do they actually come into town?"

"In small towns like this one, yes. I told you you aren't always the hunter. Now come on, lets check this out."

Flesh eating flies...perhaps I did underestimate this place...

Before they could get to the door, a crowd of people bustled through it. A lone Bosmer, who looked similar to a hunter bearing a bow, yelled something about barricading the door. Then they saw it.

An-Zaw was in awe. He had never seen any flesh fly attack to that horrible of a strain. It became more horrifying when the bodies got up and started walking, squirting blood where they go. Then An-Zaw said something very simple, and it was very true.

"This isn't normal..."

One body, one with both legs in tact and one arm, a humanoid civilian, got up and began to walk towards the door, eyes eaten out and blood dripping from everywhere possible. Josiah and An-Zaw ran up to the door, slamming it in the face of the zombies. If the civilians outside wanted shelter, they'd have to find another building.

A beating noise began to rattle the door, The infected were banging on it. Josiah looked back.

"Someone, get a table. Barricade this thing!"

Here's my sheet. Enjoy.

Name: Fanier
Age: 88 (appears 29)
Race: Altmer
Gender: Male


General Appearance: 6' 2", with above average muscle mass. Dark brown hair down to shoulders, but most often tied back. Skin is rather light, but darker than the average Altmer.
Clothing/Armour: Fanier often wears heavy pants and linens. He also favors a pair of thick leather boots. When traveling, Fanier keeps a pair of leather gauntlets and a heavy, long sleeved shirt for colder days.

General skills and talents: Trained by his father, Fanier is excellent with a short blade and a fair marksman. Over the years of his career, he has also developed a proficiency in hand-to-hand combat. He has a knack for alchemy, and can cast very minor destruction spells when necessary.
Personality and temperament: Fanier is a somber man; he lives alone and travels often. He has few friends, not because he is incapable of forming relationships but because he has found few people who he really likes. Fanier is a bit of an alcoholic, and often drowns his emotions with scotch.

Brief History: Fanier was born into a noble Altmer household, and was brought up as such. His mother, a bosmer, always taught him never to think of himself as better than anyone else; for this reason, he never fit in with the Altmer community. He left Sommerset Isle to travel abroad when he turned 28.

In High Rock, he met a charming Wood Elf named Lathora. The two hit it off, and were married after traveling with each other for eight months.

During their travels through Vvardenfell, Lathora was infected with Corprus after an expedition within the Ghostgate. She died, and Fanier continued on in sorrow. He is currently a freelancer, and while he tried to keep an honest living, Fanier is often stuck doing the dirty work for unsavory politicians and nobles.

Misc: Fanier keeps an elven shortsword, a gift from his mother before he left, either on him or locked in a secure chest. He is always wearing his late wife's golden amulet; it is his most dear possession.

IC: Fanier, Tavern

"The bottle, please," he motioned at the barkeep as he placed ten more drakes on the counter. Fanier was hunched over the bar, a small bit of his unkept hair dangling over the golden liquid in his glass. His eyes were lost in the depths of that glass, as was his mind. He was far removed from anything that was happening in that tavern, not that it mattered to him anyway.

Fanier unconciously felt the contents of his pocket; four drakes were all that was left. Scotch was his one and only vice, but he really didn't have the money for that kind of thing. Not yet anyway; after this job he'd be set for at least a few months. He paid for the room here in advance, so he didn't have to leave for a couple of days. Even so, he'd probably be done with his job and out of this [censored] town-- what was it called again? Tallshanks? Ah, it didn't matter. He'd be out of here soon.

When the barkeep delivered the bottle, Fanier drew his flask, popped the cap, and began transfering the contents of said bottle into it. As he did so, a loud buzz of swarming insects surprised him and caused him to spill a small bit onto his lap. "[censored]," he whispered as he looked around at what had caused the disturbance. There were no insects in the tavern, so he figured whatever it was must be coming from outside. Fanier looked back at his flask, noticed that it was full, and popped the cap back on.

"...Barricade the Door!" someone yelled loud enough to catch Fanier's attention. He immediately stood up, pocketed his flask, and looked over to the door. Several people crowded around the exit, some propping thing in front of it; Fanier knew something was about to happen, and it wouldn't be good.

Fanier started off toward the stairs, leaving the unfinished bottle of scotch on the bar. He rushed up the stairs to the upper level until he got to his room. Fanier burst through the door, with the key to his locked chest already in hand. He opened the chest, and procured two things: his thick leather gauntlets, and his old elven shortsword. Fanier ran back down the stairs as he fastened both items to his body.

As he reached the front door, Fanier quickly brought his hand to his chest. His fingers closed around the heavy gold amulet that hung there. Good, he breathed a sigh of relief. It's still there.

He heard someone yell to get a table or something, and he promptly did so, asking one argonian bystander to help him with it. The two brought the table up to the door, and tipped it over so they could push it up as far as possible.

Jo'Krasha, Longmont Library

A faint light seeped in through the horribly dirtied windows, doomed to stay caked with some kind of substance that refused to be washed off. Kra was alphabetizing a pitiful section of Dremoric Lore, something which he did not have an abundance of, and, for that reason, it did not occupy much of his time. Kra, after accomplishing this petty task, decided that he would once again read The White Pearl, a tale of a valiant Argonian who searched for a White Pearl. Because it was one of his personal books, Kra held it upstairs along with the other meager furniture that he owned. Kra didn't require people to pay to borrow books, but the townsfolk usually provided him with food, as he did them with knowledge. He began to walk up the stairs, each one being a death trap, something that could collapse at any second. They squeaked dangerously under his weight, but Kra payed them no attention. As he was upstairs, he heard something from the streets below. His top floor was windowless, so he quickly made his way down the stairs forgetting his book totally. As he looked through the muddy window, he saw a horde of black dots fly though the town. Kra immediately recognized what it was, and fled to behind his counter. He, however, didn't flee in fear, or terror. No, he fleed with excitement for the moment, in the anxiety that he might miss this oppurtunity.

Behind his counter he quickly grabbed a crude notebook and a makeshift writing utensil, which he snatched and ran back to his window. Yes, flesh flies. Kra had never encountered Flesh Flies, only read about them, but this was a time to learn about them! But, before he could jot anything down, they were gone. Passed like the previous days, without remorse and indifferent. A pang of sadness wrenched through Kra's body, as he was not quick enough. He sighed, there would not likely be another time there would be a Flesh Fly horde flying through town. As he further inspected the street, he found something both appalling and exciting. Dead bodies littered the street, bathing in a red sea of guts and limbs. Kra didn't flinch at it, however, and rushed outside. He flipped to a worn page in his notebook which was titled: Anatomy. He might of missed the flesh flies, but there were bodies. Lots of them! He could study the anatomy of many different subjects. There were altmer, bosmer, argonian; this was a chance to learn so much! After rushing outside, he quickly proceeded to sketch a stray arm, which had lost its skin. He drew the tendons and muscles with great detail, when he saw a flicker out of the corner of his eye.

It was a body, missing an arm, that had twitched. Perhaps this lone arm belonged to the twitching body? A flurry of questions emerged in Kra's mind, and his heart fluttered. How did his body do that? Kra wondered, hoping that he could find the answer. Abandoning his arm sketch, he raced towards the body, hoping to find another rare twitch. And so he did. The body did not just twitch, it began to move its arm, as if it were alive. Such mechanical activity after the brain had ceased! But, as Kra did not know, the brain hadn't ceased. The body continued to push itself up, rising on its feet, towering over the Khajiit. Kra stood in awe at the event, he had never witnessed something this incredible! Kra quickly flipped to another page of his notebook titled Magic: Necromancy, and began to jot down many details. As the thing approached him, however, he began to feel uncomfortable. He took a few steps to the side, and continued to jot. He noticed, however, that the reanimated figure had changed direction. Towards him. Kra, amazed and frightened, began to slowly backpedal, not knowing if he should watch for further necromancy or jot down notes. But he chose the latter, which would be a mistake. He moved his left leg back, but it hit something. Something warm and squishy. He began to fall, but his tail, which had saved his fall many times, had supported him, which helped him regain balance. But the damage was done, something was grabbing his leg.

It was wet, and as Kra turned to see this, he noticed that it was wet with blood. A bloody Dunmer grabbed hold of his leg and refused to let go. Kra felt a pang of fear fly through him like a lightning bolt, and he kicked his leg ferociously. But the hand refused to let go, and Kra felt a sense of hopelessness plague his mind.

"Help!" he cried, looking around. More of these...these things, began to crowd around him. They slowly stood up and made their way towards the helpless Khajiit.

"HELP!" he cried again, louder this time. The things were closing in fast, and if he didn't receive help soon, he felt like he would become one of the walking dead as well...

Name: Balthazar (A.K.A; Baltis)

Age: 25

Race: Dunmer

Gender: Male

General Appearance: About 6'1, 190 lbs. Mostly average for a Dunmeri of his age, though more robust and thick of arm and chest. Possessing large red eyes and shoulder length black hair, Balthazar is attractive by all standards of his people. Through his recent endeavours he has gained the gnarled knuckles and slightly crooked nose of a scrapper, changing his boyish good looks to a rugged handsome.

Clothing/Armour: Never a warrior by any means Balthazar has never had real need for armour, though for this journey he has donned a cheap leather jerkin worn under his nice shirt. He usually wears clothing above his station in society, it pays to look good.

Weapons: Balthazar has never been even mediocre with any formed of armed combat, though he keeps a steel spear strapped to his back. He is far from defenceless, fighting well with his hands and feet.

General Skills: Considered by most in his profession, useless for all intensive purposes. Never trained in anything but basic armed combat, Balthazar can hold a weapon, but whether he can use it without hurting himself has yet to be seen. He can hold himself in a brawl. Being bulky for his kind Balthazar has always been strong and his adept barroom pugilism is usually seen as his most valuable talent. But Balthazar would tell you his tongue is what he uses best. Combining wit and quick thinking with his good looks, bedding bar maids and temple servants has never been a problem for Balthazar.

Personality and Temperament: Talkative and personable. Balthazar is known around Balmora for never lacking in conversation. He is liked by most and is typically very friendly. Often prone to strong drink Balthazar often finds himself in trouble, frequently getting in fights and grappling in the back alleys and common rooms of his hometown.

Brief History: The only child of a working class family in Balmora Balthazar had an all to typical Dunmer upbringing. He worked and studied the same as all his childhood friends and he attended the Balmora Temple regularly.
Once he came of age Balthazar found that he loved the taverns and nightlife of Balmora and he sound found a calling in both fighting and loving. He soon came to the attention of local gangsters and Balthazar loved the idea of the outlaw life. For some years he lived in a comfortable niche as a Camonna Tong thug.


Balthazar IC

Damp, smelly, hot. These were the best things Balthazar could come up with to say about the land through which he traveled. The Black Marsh is no place for the unexperienced Adventurer, which is Balthazar in a nutshell. Adventuring was never really a desire for Balthazar, a Camonna Tong thug from Balmora. The farthest he'd been from home was Gnisis to rough up someone he'd never heard of, who had apparently asked too many questions.

Balthazar was happy in Balmora, living in the small room he rented above the Lucky Lockup. Frequenting the taverns and bars of Balmora and Caldera most nights and doing the odd job for his Camonna Tong bosses. He had recently made enough money to start training with some of his compatriots and was slowly improving with his spear and showed some skill with magic. But that wouldn't last. One night, drinking at the Council Club, Balthazar found himself beset by a beautiful young woman named Zaz and he quickly wooed her and they both retreated to his room next door. Poor Baltis had no idea she was Zaza Dres, her boss' daughter.

Instead of being killed on the spot, Balthazar was sent on a mission to the Black Marsh to escort a shipment of Moon Sugar back to Vvardenfell. Now he is walking through the oppressive heat and ravenous vermin to a backwater burg called Longmont, lonely and miserable.

"'It's not that bad Baltis' he said."
"'Just stay off the road Baltis'" he said!"
He kicked a large fern and swung his arms at nothing.
"N'wah!" He yelled at the canopy, panting.

Balthazar finally found Longmont. Filthy, sweaty and covered in bites he drudged in to town. Something squished under his foot, he looked down expecting just another nasty swamp creature.

"Why do yo . . ." He trailed off.

No swamp creature. Something wet, dark red almost brown, oval shaped.

"What is that?"

Then he saw the people.

Most were on the ground, many quite clearly dead. Body parts were strewn everywhere and streams of blood and black ran through the streets. A tall Altmer man was stumbling near him, A survivor?.

"Hey you!" Baltis cried at the High Elf.

The Altmer turned and looked hungrily at Baltis with black, unblinking eyes. Balthazar recoiled and with a guttural, feral scream the Altmer lunged and grabbed ravenously with his remaining gnarled hand. Balthazar panicked, he jumped back and awkwardly hurled a large fireball at the charging Elf. In the moment of panic his untrained mind drew too much on his Magicka making the resulting fireball far too large and nearly exhausting Baltis. The attack thoroughly singed his foe. . . But had the added affect of attracting the attention of many more gruesome monsters.

Baltis drew the steel spear from his back and squared himself to his opponents.

"Dres you Fetcher, you could have killed me in Balmora."

Longmont.

The Imperial name rolled through Siuhs-Va's mind as his feet plodded through the mud. The village was barely worth the title. A single, muddy road, overshadowed by the canopy above, stretched for a mile in either direction. Imperial buildings of wood and mortar lined the single street, but even they were succumbing to the power of the marsh. Fungus covered many walls, and vines and creepers slinked up buildings like an insidious disease reclaiming that which the foolish softskins had thought to take from the marsh. Siuhs' foot splashed a puddle of black marshwater as he made his way down the road. Firmly grasped in his fist was the hilt of his sword as sharp sulfur eyes scanned the town. Things were different, somehow. The brisk wind carried the scent of death to Siuhs' sensitive nostrils. The scales along his spine raised shifted beneath his werecrocodile leather, and dark brown brows narrowed as Siuhs sought out the source of the odd scent.

It was almost like the scent of a rotting animal, but it bore a more fruity scent than that. A rotting animal was rare enough in the swamp as it was - the marshes usually took care of any dead creatures - but as Siuhs' eyes rested suspiciously on the Imperial tavern, the source of the scent became all too apparent. A harsh buzzing filled the air, and Siuhs turned to see a dark swarm of flesh flies traveling on the breeze. The Argonian stood perfectly still, his keen eyes searching the swarm as it passed over him. Flesh flies were hazardous, but to the tough scales of the People of the Root they were only a minor hindrance and Siuhs had long learned to ignore them. The flies swarmed past, and Siuhs continued from the marsh and onto the road itself.

That was when he saw the bodies. Their stench filled the village, and Siuhs was repulsed by it. He was no stranger to death, but the man firmly believed that death should have its purpose. This death, however... it was disgusting. Siuhs' could see now that the smoothskins in the tavern were blockading the door. A hissing laugh escaped his lips as he walked casually over through the flesh flies. Blocking the door wouldn't help them if the flies wanted in. The tavern was hardly well put together, and was falling apart at the seams. Countless little holes and cracks were large enough for the flies to get in. Siuhs approached the window and knocked on it to get their attention. His mouth opened to offer advice on keeping the flies out, but his breath died in his lungs. The corpses littering the street were slowly getting to their feet. Siuhs frowned in confusion as he watched a marshbrother get to his feet, but he was already long dead. Oozing black blood dripped from his eyes and mouth and ears, and his scales had turned an unhealthy shade of crimson. Siuhs found himself standing out in the street, a building to his back, with dozens, if not more, of the rotting dead now at their feet and gazing hungrily.

Siuhs-Va's hand gripped his scimitar hilt tighter, But against this many zombies, it will be worthless making a stand. The men in the tavern wouldn't help - they were screaming and shouting at one another as if they'd never seen a zombie before. Although it was rare to see a zombie in Black Marsh -the marsh usually disposed of potential necromancer fodder before they could practice their unholy magick on it- it wasn't something Siuhs hadn't heard of before. He quickly turned and grabbed hold of the vines creeping all over the building walls. Siuhs' kicked his boots away, and dug into the vines and wooden wall with his claws. His whip-like tail lashed back and forth for balance as the Argonian quickly scaled the building, searching and hoping for some way inside on the second floor. He doubted the undead could follow him - the corpses were in such terrible condition that they were falling apart, and everything he read about zombies bespoke of their terrible hand/eye coordination and balance. Climbing would be next to impossible... or so he hoped.

I figured I'd just repost the character from the last Black Plague RP but with minor changes to better suit this one.


The trails of blood and bone drew Xa-raku closer to Longmont at a much quicker pace than earlier. He had already been heading there, but now he was certain something terrible had happened. There were no bodies, only blood smearing the plants and soaking into the soil. This meant either a very large, very hungry predator, or slavers. And unless the carnivore had more than a dozen pairs of feet, Xa-raku believed that left only one thing. Still, something nagged at him as he ran towards the city, kicking up tufts of dirt with his heels. There were no footprints leading back into the woods, no one picked to escort the slavers back to any camp, no lookouts, no cages or nets strewn about. Furthermore, slavers wouldn't cause this much bloodshed. No, even raiders wouldn't extract bones and organs....the marsh-monk glanced at some of the pieces as he ran, and for a moment thought he could make out teeth marks in one of the severed limbs.

At the town, things were already silent, save for the incessant high-pitched hum of thousands of Fleshfly wings, which were gone soon after he arrived. Xa-raku looked at the corpses for a long time as he moved towards them, hoping it was just a trick of the light that caused him to mistake rocks or pieces of wood as corpses from too far away. But the shapes didn't change as he drew close, and only grew more grisly and detailed until the smell and sights were too much to go any closer. He turned down an alleyway, hoping to move around it, but found the next street over even worse than the last, and so opted to go back the way he came where at least the bodies weren't so tightly packed, thinking he could at least walk between them. As the monk turned the corner, however, he saw that the street was now once again full of people, with no corpses at all. Xa-raku looked back down the way he had came, wondering if this was the right street. Then he blinked and rubbed his head, wondering if maybe he had imagined the entire thing. As he turned back to the crowd, he realized that they were the bodies he had seen before, still dripping with ichor and missing vital pieces. They staggered about, rasping for air they didn't need, but Xa-raku had not made an effort of being stealthy, and many of them turned to look at him. Their eyes were either blackened or missing, and at first glance Xa-raku thought they resembled the Kothringi of old, before he realized that their skin had simply been transformed into a sickly black.

Nothing about this made sense, nothing felt right, Xa-raku didn't think the sickness would have been this terrible. He thought that maybe he could help them, or ask them who did this to them, or get someone to help. He couldn't simply leave them here, as they were. Then one finally managed to stumble close enough to him to take a swing. The zombie was unarmed and sluggish, apparently some kind of elven mage or scholar. The creature's arm was blocked by the monk, who glided under and around the zombie and held his arm behind his back. A second one was almost upon Xa-raku before he could react, his leg springing out and knocking the zombie backward. Xa-raku twisted the first one's arm in a swift motion, sending the corpse spinning to the ground. He wanted to try talking to them, to say something, but he couldn't think of anything to say. He was no negotiator.

Xa-raku ran, sandaled feet connecting firmly with an empty crate, followed by the wall of a wooden-panelled building as he scaled it in a matter of moments. He looked down on the horde as they stretched their arms out for him even when they knew they could not reach. His fists clenched, knuckles popping into place as he welled with confusion and disgust. He had to stop this.

Name: Attilus Maro
Age: 22
Race: Imperial (Colovian)
Gender: Male


General Appearance:
Attilus is the last sort of person you would expect to find in the city guard. Neither tall nor bulky, his lean frame allows him none of the brute strength and stamina that one would find in your stereotypical legionary. Instead you find yourself staring at a rather boyish face, complete with blue eyes and blond hair that make him look even younger. In other words, Attilus is supremely suited to the tasks of day to day law enforcement in a small town such a Longment; patrolling the outskirts for predators, covering the long distances between the various outlying plantations and lounging in the tropical sun. Attacks from supernatural beings however, are something for which he is entirely unprepared.

Clothing/Armour: Attilus, being a fairly responsible and law abiding chap, still owns more than half of his original standard issue Legionary uniform and equipment. Much of it however, has been sold on to passing merchants who peddle it to people who have more use for heavy armour and thick winter clothing. Attilus has however, held onto his Broadsword and shortbow which has been augmented with a skinning knife for selling the pelts of anything he catches during his patrols. Clothing-wise, he is usually seen in his Legion issue boots, worn underneath a pair of loose trousers and a tunic. He habitually wears a floppy, wide-brimmed hat to keep the tropical sun out of his eyes.

General skills and talents: Attilus was never much of a fighter, he simply isn't built for going head to head against others as most people are invariably both stronger and better trained than he. However, practice has made him into a reasonable shot with his shortbow and a good, agile runner who is at home in the jungles that surround Longmont. Other than this, his mates in the guard know him to be quick witted and intelligent for an uneducated trooper, something that manifests itself in their refusal to gamble with him anymore.

Personality and temperament: Attilus is generally a calm, easy-going lad. He has never really had to face much adversity in his life, thanks to a mix of natural intelligence and a cushy career. Despite his career choice, he has never really had a strong belief in justice, preferring simply to go through the motions, solving the little problems of the locals and turning a blind eye to the occasional questionable individuals who passed through from time to time, most of whom were either drugs runners or criminals on the run fro the law, neither of whom were particularly likely to do anything to attract attention to themselves. Besides, the kick-backs he received from the local innkeeper for placing a few of the dead-drops during his patrol routes more than made up for the small crimes that occurred in town, at least in his eyes. This attitude has served Attilus well so far in life although this policy of conflict evasion probably won't serve him quite so well anymore.

Brief History: Attilus' history contains nothing of any real merit, his parents were colonists who had moved out of Cyrodil before he was born, meaning that Attilus has spent his entire life within the village of Longment. His parents had always intended the village to be a temporary stop over before they moved further into Blackmarsh, hoping someday to make their fortune selling land to the following generation of colonists. But, once Attilus was born, they delayed for a few years and were dragged into village life. Over time however, they began to tire of their simple life and, once Attilus turned 16 they proposed a move back to civilisation, to one of the larger cities such as Hellstrom. Attilus however was unwilling to leave the town of his birth and stayed behind in the city guard.

IC

“Maro, pay attention!”

Attilus started at the Sergeant's booming voice, it still surprised him that the stocky old war veteran could speak so loudly. The Sergeant continued to talk without waiting for a reply from the least promising soldier in a roomful of no-hopers.

“Alright lads, you did well to congregate here at the barracks. Those Flesh flies are going to cause a mighty panic amongst the civilians and we're going to have to keep the peace for once”

He sounds like he relishes the idea... Attilus thought to himself, staring down at the noisy little man, who had been long past his prime even before Attilus was born.

“It won't be pretty out there, people were caught outside and there's no nastier sight than someone who has been eaten alive so I need you to keep your heads and follow me. There'll be looters and other riff-raff in the streets already so be prepared but, at the same time remember why we're going out there; to help the wounded and to keep the crowds out of the way whilst the surgeons tend to those who can still be saved.”

The Sergeant paused to let the message sink in, he was smiling and Attilus could almost see the glory days that were whizzing before that man's eyes as the volume of the Sergeant's voice rose louder than the young Imperial would have thought possible to roar of,

“READY LADS!”

Which was responded to by an equally testosterone filled shout from Attilus' companions as the Sergeant lead them out of the wooden guardhouse and into...

Attilus faltered as he stepped out into the bloody streets. The Sergeant hadn't been kidding. The streets literally ran red and they were strewn with people; most of them seemingly wounded as they lay on the floor, twitching and scrabbling in the slick, reddish mud. To his left, one of the soldiers added his own contribution to the stream of bodily fluids, and augmenting the acid stench which had been masked by the mud-sealed walls of the Guardhouse.

“A-alright lads”

It was the Sergeant, hesitant now that the rose tinted spectacles had been firmly wrenched from his vision.

“Fan out, we need to find help, there's too much of a job here for just our surgeon, we're going to need help: Mages, priests, anyone will do so long as they can heal a wound.”

The group hesitated, unwilling to split up in the face of such a gory sight. What if the flies came back? The Sergeant's eyes narrowed, he remembered this from the wars as well, cowards! He drew his sword.

“GET GOING YOU WRETCHES, OR ELSE YOU'LL BE JOINING THESE POOR PEOPLE ON THE FLOOR”

Attilus scattered and found himself running in the direction of the town centre, along with another guard; Beniamus, although most people simply called the big, Nordic, Ox Ben. He grinned at the big fellow, he was glad of the imposing company although Ben wasn't the sharpest of soldiers, he was certain that the brute could handle a crowd.

"Damn you Dres!" Balthazar yelled as he dodged around a black Argonian with empty eye sockets and many missing parts.
"I'm going to string you up by your ankles and skin you alive you N'wah!"

Baltis ran through the small villages lone street, dodging reanimated corpses and stabbing with his long spear when he could. As he ran past a small hovel a grisly muscled arm grabbed him from between the next hut. He screamed as he looked into the snarling face of a not so dead anymore town guardsman. It's one eye was black as jet and oozing a foul fluid down his mailed torso, the other was an empty burned out socket. The lids of the missing eye still tried to blink. Balthazar struggled to pull free, but the zombie's vice grip prevailed. It moaned and slowly raised a black smeared broadsword in a limp left hand missing fingers and some of the palm. Without knowing what he'd done, Baltis sent a powerful surge of heat from his own flesh to the arm of his assailant, turning the putrid hand to dust and badly burning his own arm. He turned quickly and with his powerful right arm drove the steel head of his spear through the corpses remaining eye pouring what was left of it's brain through the hole bored in the back of it's skull. The Zombie dropped and Balthazar ran on.

"Am I the only one alive?" He cried into the pestilent mass shambling through the street.

Then he spotted an Argonian climbing the side of what looked like a tavern. Zombies don't climb, he's alive! He turned to sprint to the large building, punching a reanimated Argonian as he went, the hardest he had ever punched in his life, rupturing the creatures festering eyeball and crushing it's face. He quickly closed the gap to the tavern and waved his arms at the dark scaled fellow.

"Argonian!" Balthazar yelled as loud as he could, tossing a pebble into the wall near the climbing lizard.
"Friend! Some help?"

Siuhs' clambered by claw and scale up the side of the tavern. Climbing the harshly hewn wood, interlaced with vines and creepers was easy work to one who had spent his life in the marshes, and it showed. Whip-like tail lashed back and forth for balance as Siuhs found himself on the overhang looking down over the assembled masses. The village of Longmont was not a large settlement, and as such, the number of undead were only in the dozens. The rest of the town was either hiding or eaten by the repulsive creatures. One tall Argonian reached a two-clawed hand up to try and grasp at Siuhs. The scout unsheathed his scimitar and struck without hesitation. The zombie's grasping hand hit the ground with a satisfying thunch, but the creature was undeterred.

"By all the flies in the swamp!" Siuhs cursed under his breath in his native tongue as the creature kept reaching up in vain. A scrambled kick to the head from Siuhs' bare heel crunched bone and tender flesh - and instantly made Siuhs regret it as a stab of pain bruised his heel. That'll be smarting for days to come... The Argonian thought.

Sulfur eyes turned as his ears picked up something over the clattering din of mindless zombies desperately seeking living flesh. A tall Dunmer man stood on the ground nearby, battling against the horde for his very life and limb. From his vantage point, Siuhs could see the man's technique, and he could see how flawed he was in combat with a spear. Leave it to an ashskin to [censored] it up... went through Siuhs' mind as, for a moment, he said nothing. The Dunmer chucked a poorly aimed pebble at him - though how he found a pebble in the swamp or how he found the time to search out and find one whilst defending himself from the horde, Siuhs could not tell.

"Preferring it where I am, thank you." Siuhs replied with a broad smile. He had no love for Dunmer - not after all that the dark elves had done to harm his people. This one and his manhandling with his spear seemed to be little different. "If wanting help, then come where it iz safe." He hissed. Siuhs' tail whipped as he replied. If the Dunmer man could make it to the building, Siuhs knew he would offer a strong arm to help the smoothskin up - but Siuhs was not about to risk his life to save such a vile creature from the abominable demons that swarmed around the streets.

OOC: Er... I tried to spur some character interaction by putting my character in peril danger, but nobody seems to be really paying him any attention. Let me put it this way: IF SOMEONE DOESN'T HELP, MY CHARACTER IS GOING BYE-BYE (BUT NOT REALLY BECAUSE THEN HE'LL BE A ZOMBIE)

OOC: Sorry EB, I saw your post but decided to let some people get their first posts in before I replied.

IC:


Marcus' looked to his left to see the black and white coloured Argonian youth disappearing inbetween two large re-animated bodies that shambled towards them with rattling breath and jilted gait. Fear for the young one's safety clutched at his heart for a moment before he spotted him running off into the distance crying words in his native tongue.

The two undead groaned ever closer, Marcus removed his sword from it's hilt and grasped the strap of his sack a little tighter. One of them lunged forward but Marcus was too quick -- it was hard not to be more agile than a creature with so much tissue damage on its body. He side stepped the attack and gave the creature a swift slash across it's mud covered back, but did little to deter its aggression.

"Head's up Marcus!" Sezarh shouted, pushing the Imperial aside with barely a seconds warning, saving him from a second aggressor who had approached from behind. Both Marcus and Sezarh went sliding through the soup of blood water and earth -- coming to a halt with a squelch.

"I didn't know you cared." Marcus spat, pulling himself back to his feet ignoring the winded sensation in his chest before offering a hand to his companion. "Try to be more gentle next time."

"It's not you I care about. It's what's in your bag." The red scaled Argonian said in reply, nodding to the sack slung over Marcus' back. "It's worth more than both of us put together. Where did the little one go?"

Marcus didn't answer, he scanned around the village and saw three things -- the arrival of more people, living (or so he hoped.) a tavern with an Argonian scaling its walls, and a Khajiit trying furiously to escape from the clutches of a blood covered Dunmer, and heading in their direction -- the Argonian with no name.

He instantly shot forwards, holding onto his sword like it was his infant child, but holding the bag tighter -- his life was lost without both, one just ensured a slightly longer life expectancy should it be lost. As he ran he passed a Dunmer, frantically lashing out with a spear, he had to physically duck to avoid being hit by it himself.

Sezarh ran by his side, scanning the scene up ahead with his reptile eyes, weighing up the options. He sped up, running forward's to help the Khajiit, which was a first for Marcus, seeing an Argonian help a Khajiit. Marcus pumped his legs furiously, trying to stay level with the Sezarh, but the Argonian proved more adept in the given terrain. He reached the Dunmer first -- without a weapon.

He immediately dived onto the back of the body and wrapped one arm around its neck and the other around it's face, squeezing and pulling it's head back with as much strength as he could muster, but it was a useless endeavour trying to force something into submission when it couldn't feel pain.

Then the creature opened its mouth, gaping wide and leaving black liquid -- it bit down into the hardened scaled of Sezarh's arm. The Argonian let out a scream of pain but didn't let go, he pulled harder but only damaged himself more.

No-name the Argonian stepped forward then, swinging his wooden tooth covered sword into the back of Sezarh's neck. Marcus shouted as the blood shout out from his companion's wound, he ran forward's and tackled the young Argonian to the floor, pinning him down by the neck with one hand, the tip of his sword pressed firmly against his chest with the other.

"No!" The Argonian hissed, his tail shook violently from side to side, trying to earn himself a bit of leverage. "Neck -- chop neck!" he spat, beating the side of his neck with the side of his palm.

"You killed the wrong bloody person!" Marcus snarled, spit flying from his mouth onto the snow coloured scales. He barely paid attention to the Khajiit struggling against the Dunmer, nor the body of Sezarh slowly pulling itself up from the ground.

"Neck!" the white Argonian shouted, beating his neck again while staring at something over Marcus' shoulder. "Kill! Kill Black scale!"

Marcus' grip loosened as a shadow passed over him. He turned to see Sezarh standing over him, a snarl on his face -- black fluid leaking from his eye sockets and mouth. The Imperial scrambled back and held his sword out, just in time. Sezarh lunged forward, it's howl of furry turning into a sickening gargle as he impaled himself on Marcus' outstretched sword, severing the spine at the base of the neck, leaving a gaping wound through his throat as the sword passed through the other side.

"By the nine?" Marcus whispered when Sezarh's body shook and grew still, but he afforded himself no respite -- the noise of people panicking an fighting was to great for the legionnaire inside him. He pushed the Argonian away and turned back to the Khajiit, to see the No-named Argonian beating furiously against the back of the Dunmer's head with his sword, pounding and pounding -- until at last an almighty crunch. The Dunmer dropped dead in seconds.

"Are you ok?" Marcus asked the Khajiit, pushing himself to his feet for the third time in ten minutes. "I'm Marcus, this is? well -- he has no name."

OOC:

I'll make An-Zaw's sheet soon Solidor, or I'll at least give you some kind of descriptive paragraph in the next few days. I'm going to NPC control the tavern bouncer who is a large Orc, as well as an Imperial bar-tender. Let's get going guys.

IC:

Josiah, An-Zaw, the tavern in Longmont

The table was now seated in front of the old tavern double-door thanks to the help of a fellow Argonian and an Altmer. After the table was pressed against the door, Josiah backed off first, stepping back slowly towards the Altmer. An-Zaw stopped, leaning his ear towards the table for a second, and then took his steps backward farther into the tavern. He stood there quietly, as many of the citizens in the tavern had stopped their helpless noises. He heard it. A loud beating noise struck the door, rattling the wooden table again and again. He heard an Imperial woman scream in the back of the room, and a few people in the crowd began to bustle. An-Zaw steadied his ear and Josiah stood there doing the same.

"Quiet!"

An-Zaw blurted it out in his slick Argonian voice that seemed to slide across the tavern walls as slime. The crowd was silenced for the most part, the Imperial woman whimpering lightly.

Scratch...Scratch...

A noise dragged its way along the wall and they continued to listen. It made its way up the to the northern part of the room, finally stopping to a halt. They sat there in silence for a moment as an Imperial approached. This was apparently the bartender, wearing long shaggy black hair that streaked down his neck in a curly fashion.

"Well what was that out there?-"

Even though his sentence was finished, his breath was cut short as someone heard a window shatter. One of the only three larger windows in the room north of the door on the same side as it came crashing in, as a black-scaled Argonian's upper torso fell through. Black blood spilled from his eyes, and a staggering wound was stuck in his shoulder. One might have expected him to be a wounded person, but he let out a nasty, unnatural grunt. It didn't sound like a helpless cry of a human or beast, or a whimper, or even one of anger. It was one of evil, pure darkness.

Josiah's eye flashed as he grabbed his bow and began to pull an arrow from the leather sack which was used as his quiver. He was shocked when the tavern's bouncer, a large Orc wearing a black leather jacket over a long-sleeved tan linen shirt with black linen pants. His lone black ponytail among his bald head flung wildly and his tusks seemed to growl at the air, as he grabbed a square wooden chair and tossed it at the Argonian. The chair rattled as it struck the Argonian in the head, the zombie apparently losing his balance and falling backwards. The Orc tossed a few more chairs towards the window, enough to weigh anything down temporarily. He motioned towards the Argonian who had helped move the last table, and the two picked up the nearest table, placing it in front of the window. He looked back at the shaggy Imperial bartender.

"Acraeus, get the tables and cover the windows."

A Nedic looking man stepped forth, wrinkled with shaggy, shoulder length light brown hair. He looked to be Nordic and Imperial, probably a mix between the two. He wore an old rugged iron suit of armor folded with leather padding at his joints. He drew a long iron longsword, but left his oak-iron shield strapped to his back. He stepped towards the Orc, eying him with a wise eye.

"Sir, we can't stay here forever. We have to get out of here..."

The Orc looked back, and the bartender along with some other Argonians in the tavern began moving tables to cover the other windows in the room.

"We need to organize ourselves first, and determine what this is. We have to make a plan, especially with all of these citizens here."

One wouldn't expect a large Orc bouncer to be a thoughtful wise being. He seemed to be very serious and strategic, which contradicted his appearance. The Nede nodded at the Orc, and then proceeded behind the bar to a door that led upstairs to the owner's quarters. The Imperial bartender stopped his motions, and took off towards the Nede, scolding him.

"You can't go up there. That's off limits!"

The Nord eyed him back with a scrunching brow, showing a slight frown.

"It leads to the roof, he have to see what we're up against."

The Imperial ran up to the Nede, attempting to grab him and keep him from opening the door. The Orc bouncer stepped up to stop the Imperial, instead of helping his co-worker stop the Nord.

"We need to take a look at this. Whatever that is out there- it wants to get you, and I would like to know what it is..."

The Orc then paused and turned, putting his hand on the Nede's shoulder. One could tell now he was mostly Nordic, due to small wind-braids on the back of his neck.

"What is your name, Nord?"

The Nord's wrinkles seemed to uncoil, as his face stretched back up to greet the Orc. He turned his head on one side to see the Orc and stepped back to pull the door open.

"Derik the Wind-Binded...Fighters Guild...yours?"

"Gro-shog Ma-Sholug"

Josiah began to step towards them, walking up towards the Nord in a slow manner. An-Zaw walked towards the table-covered window, trying his best to glimpse any action going on outside the tavern by finding any slight cracks from which he could see.

"Fighters Guild...Are the other guild members still in the city's guild hall?"

The Nord settled back, nodding his head.

"It's likely some of them are still there...some were probably in the other parts of the city, and another one here with us..."

The Nord pointed at a Redguard man who wore the same iron suit and shield. He was a stocky sort, his curly black hair fitting well with his body. This one wielded a war-axe, contrary to the Nord. The man emerged from the other side of the inn after helping move the tables. He walked towards the group.

"Name's Darius. Fighters Guild. Lets get to the roof..."

Josiah nodded, and looked back at An-Zaw.

"An-Zaw, lets go..."

Josiah almost began to walk towards the stairs, but stopped. An-Zaw stopped as well, but resumed his route after Josiah nodded at him and motioned him to continue. The Redguard took a look back at the taller Altmer who had helped them bar the front door. He saw the being was armed with an Elven shortsword. He also saw the Bosmer, who wielded a bow. He thought about speaking to both of them, but he decided to address the Altmer, who appeared to be a good person.

"Altmer, I see that sword at your side. Can you fight?"

Longmont
Tavern

Norwin watched the whole scene from the corner of the room. His bow found its way back on his back after the door was barricaded. When the monstrosity had flailed itself through the window he itched for a weapon in his hand, before he could arm himself the burly Orc had dealt with the situation accordingly. The window he had been standing by was already being nailed shut by two locals, and the rest of the survivors had split into two groups apparently.

Norwin saw the group of warriors head up to the roof, and when the man by the name of Josiah stopped near an altmer with a sword and himself the man dismissed the bosmeri hunter.

"Altmer, I see that sword at your side. Can you fight?"

Norwin stepped forward despite not being part of the conversation.

" I'm Norwin of Greenheart, i'm not sure how much good my arrows can do against such creatures, in all my travels i've not seen anything like them. I have some knowledge of magic and I can tend to the wounded. I'll stay behind if need be, but our best bet would be to stay organized and aware."

OOC:

Wooly my character is interacting with Josiah i believe, I know you didnt ask me but I need something to do.

OOC: Sorry for the OOC only post -- just want to point out a few things that have been pointed out to me (which I already noticed previously.) Dont take offence to this, it's not meant to be offensive.

In my opening post I was quite vague -- because I was vague at decribing what was happening without having my characters peeking out of safety I let thing's slip. But I thought I'd point it out now -- The Fleh flies passed over the top of Longmont, they didnt attack anybody but it is safe for anybody who was hiding to assume they did, in reality they where doing what He-Has-No-Name was doing, fleeing from the Infection. After Marcus dragged No name into his hut, the true black scaled sweeped through the village, leaving anybody outdoor's dead where they stood. The few bodies not utterly destroyed then re-animated into the Infected we're currently fighting -- but there wasnt meant to be more than 10 or so. Sorry for the confusion. For the sake of getting some interaction on the fly, i'll be drawing the fight to a close in my next post, but I'll wait for a few more people to reply so they can finish what they are doing. If possible -- try to get your characters into the Tavern. Along with my next post I'll be posting a short event post, which will include a new set of objective for the objective table -- because of the sheer amount of sheet's I've recieved for this RP i'll will be splitting us into two teams for the sake of easy interaction -- but the teams will be close enough to re-unite should we have to, so nobody is left behind in the dirt

If you have a problem or dont think this is fair or have any suggestions let me know but i'd rather not let this RP die again due to confusion

Attilus and Ben rounded a corner, finally moving out of sight of the sergeant who had chosen to chase after the other three guards who had headed off in the opposite direction. It was here that the Imperial paused, thankful that this street was deserted, although strangely, still steeped in blood. He leant against the wall to catch his breath, he felt tired although it was still quite early. The sight of those poor, half eaten people writhing in pain still obscured his vision, he wanted to be sick but he knew that he would be doing nobody any favours if he gave into his body. No. He had to stay strong, to do his duty.

Find a healer...

He made as if to continue, but hesitated again at the thought of seeing more victims, there had been something about them... Maybe it had been the lack of sound, there were no grunts of pain, nor any sign in fact that they actually felt there horrific wounds, just some sort of single minded urge to shift their bodies, despite being far too damaged to walk. They just seemed unnatural, something about them just made Attilus want to draw his sword and run them through, he wanted to think that it was compassion, that he couldn't bear to stand there and watch them deal with the horrible pain that their last few moments of life would force them to endure. But it was something worse than that, he was afraid, he just wanted them to die and be done with. It chilled him that he could be so callous and selfish in the face of such suffering.

“Atta?”

Ben's ponderous, rumbly tones interrupted his train of thought and caused Attilus to look up at the troll-sized Nord. It was obvious that his companion was no more certain as of what to do than Attilus himself, he had to take some responsibility for once.

With a sigh, he pushed himself away from the wall and motioned Ben to follow; they would continue towards the town centre, most of the townspeople would congregate there and so there was a good chance of finding a healer.

They had reached the end of the street, moving at a good pace, when Attilus began to hear shouts and screams for help from the direction of the Library; just off the main square. He glanced over his shoulder at Ben, unsure of what to do but found that the big fellow had already set off in that direction, lumbering along as fast as his bulk would allow him. Attilus hesitated for a second then followed, bow in hand, confident that the bulk of his comrade would be enough to scare off any would be looters.

He rounded the corner in time to see an Imperial dispatch one Argonian whilst another, more tribal-looking albino lizard caved in the skull of one of the wounded. The poor reature had been desperately grabbing at a Khajjit, whom Attilus vaguely recognised as the town Librarian. Before him, Ben had slowed to a halt, the adapted claymore held easily in one hand. He seemed confused as to exactly what was going on, a feeling with which Attilus could empathise; were these people looters, or where they defending themselves? If it wasn't the presences of the Librarian, whom he knew to be quiet and docile if a little odd, Attilus would be debating whether to arrest or flee from the two armed men.

“Stop in the name of the law”
Ben mumbled, seemingly deciding that due to the uncertainty of the guilt of the three individuals before him that a less black and white interpretation of the law was required; hence a quietly uncertain proclamation of their impending arrest.

If their opponents had looked less deadly, Attilus would have laughed. Instead, he came to back up his compatriot.
“What happened here?”

Longmont
The Tavern

Neteo looked out through one of the taverns intact windows, scanning the town square and any other location he could see in his plane of view. He had been looking through the window ever since the screams began and the black mist of Flesh flies dissipated, only to be replaced by black lumbering figures. Despite the fact that a non-so-gracious bystander rammed a small stool against the window made it exceptionally hard to make things out. It was hard for his bright eyes to navigate the small cracks and openings that he could peer out from, he could see a certain percent of the square fairly, however he wasn't sure what good it would do.

The Argonian remained unnaturally calm -- steady breathing, and remaining still at a time that would cause the most hardened man to cower in fear. It all seemed strikingly familiar to him, but was not able to confirm it until an unexpected guest lunged through a window on the opposite end of the tavern. Something that used to be a fellow Argonian, however it seemed as if it's flesh and been seared and corroded by decomposition or that it's limbs had been torn off by excessive force. Something that Neteo had seen many times before. The black-scaled lizard was a Zombie! It let out a dark, guttural growl that made even Neteo shiver and attempted to leap at one of the bystanders but was struck by a chair with might force that sent it sprawling to the floor. The son of a late-necromacer glanced over at the opposite side of the tavern to see an enormous Orc, the bouncer obviously, tossing more chairs towards the window with minimal effort.

Neteo swallowed nervously and tugged the corners of his robe's hood closer to his features. This was not a good sign at all, although he kept his calm front. He was a bit glad he was in the opposite end away from the danger, and furthest away from the others but despite that he felt a growing curiosity towards the zombified corpse on the ground, a strange black fluid leaking out of his eyes, nose and mouth. The crimson-scaled reptile maneuvered his way carefully around the others whom were busy propping things against any sort of point of entrance, being careful not to get too close or bump into one of them. Although it had been almost a decade since his banishment, few may have known who he was, but he didn't want to risk it.
He continued until he was kneeling next to the black cadaver of the zombie. Upon closer inspection, it looked like the body had undergone some sort of major flesh-erosion and decomposition of some sort. It's scales looked rubbery and weak, it's exposed flesh was almost as black as it's outside. It was as if this corpse had been dead, for a long time.

I've seen worse before... Neteo mumbled mentally as he extended his hand and dabbed his index finger in a small forming pool of the black liquid leaking out of the zombie. At first glance, the lizard thought it was just coagulated blood mixed with rotting body chemicals and liquids, but then it would have been thick and pungent; this was neither.
Neteo slowly brought his hand to his snout and took a few, quick and cautious sniffs. It smelled putrid, his throat felt like it was tightening up and he let out a disgusted sigh. Wiping the residue on his finger on his robe, the lizard stood up and proceeded away from the body and made his way back to his original position.

Neteo payed no mind to the others with him in the tavern, his gaze was welded on the barricaded window as he went over what had just happened in his mind. People were turning into zombies for some reason, devouring and killing anyone they come across and if he hadn't stopped by the inn to buy a a quick meal before he vacated the town, he would've become one of them.

ooc: Whoo! My first RP post in ages

Jo'Krasha; Longmont

The Dunmer was getting closer, almost on top of him now, and the Khajiit tried one more time to yell. He yelled, yet he heard no sound. The great mountain of fear that had welled up inside him had paralyzed him, he was unable to think, unable to move. Some natural, mechanical force kept the Dunmer at bay by extending the Khajiit's right forearm against the Dunmer's neck. The Dunmer tried to bite at the arm multiple times, and each time a cold flood of fear rushed from his head to his tail, but it never connected. The lactic acid began to build up in his arm, as the Khajiit was not used to using such strength. But his body was in survive mode, so he would have to do this until he passed out.

Suddenly, he felt the weight of the zombie double, and a red, scaly tentacle wrapped right around the neck of the Dunmer, the scales rubbing up against Jo'Krasha's short fur. As he regained his conciousness, taken it back from that odd mechanical force, he began to see the whole picture. A burly Argonian had tried to pry the Dunmer off of Kra by means of a submissive move. The zombie was obdurate, and refused to move. Such behavior, observed Kra, means that this thing feels no pain, or it would surely submit within no time at all. He stored it within his mental notebook, and if he got out of here, he would jot it down along with the other notes he had. The Argonian was relentless, after the Dunmer got off a succesful bite into the arm of the Argonian, it didn't stop. It was then when Kra saw two more figures materialize out of the corner of his eye. An Imperial and an Argonian; yet this Argonian was different, it was Albino. A genetic anomaly? Kra quizzed. He saw the albino Argonian began to slice at the neck of the one helping him, and confusion rushed into Kra's brain. So this Albino Argonian was one of these things as well? The Imperial instinctively tackled him, and they were out of site. The Khajiit used this time to wrap his tail around the leg of the bloody Dunmer and try to pull him off. He suddenly felt releaved of the heavier weight as the Argonian that had helped him began to stand up.

"No!" Kra cried, "help me, please!" But the words of the Khajiit only faded into Oblivion as the Argonian stumbled away. He began to successfully pull the Dunmer off as the Albino Argonian, the zombie, had returned. No! He was able to best both the Imperial and the Argonian in his infected state? Hopelessness once again conquered his thoughts as he tried to pull the Dunmer off him before the albino could get to him. But to his suprise, the albino used the same sword, which looked like a ancient weapon of the Archien tribe from the many illustrations of People of the Root, to continuously chop at the head of the Dunmer. Finally, the Dunmer fell limp, and the Khajiit jumped up. The next things he saw happened all at once. He noticed the Red Argonian dead on the floor, a gaping hole through his throat, black bile spilling out of his eyes and nostils. He saw the Imperial, who looked like he was affected by some sort of shock, stumble over to his position. The zombie, then was the Argonain, the red one, who was bitten by the Dunmer. He then saw the blood on his fur which was matted down by the dead Dunmer's hand, and debated whether to clean it off himself.

However, as observed from the red Argonian, this virus could be delivered through saliva, so licking it up wouldn't be good. Kra knew all to well of blood-borne pathogens, such as Black Lungs¹. The Khajiit assumed that the Imperial and the Albino were not infected, for if they were, they would be changed already (due to the speed the infection spread through the Red Argonian and the speed which he began to become hostile).

“Are you ok?” The Imperial said, his voice quivering with what seemed like fear, shock, and surprise. The Khajiit then confirmed his theory that the Albino and Imperial were safe, and he nodded. "Thank yu f'r yar help. If it wern't f'r yar, I would been long dead." The Khajiit said back to the Imperial, his voice quivering much like the Imperials.

"“I’m Marcus, this is… well -- he has no name.” Said the Imperial. The Khajiit nodded and seemed it would be only fair to tell his name. "My name iss Jo'Krasha, but yu c'n call mee...Kra". He felt his eyes flicker back to the dead Argonian and a pang of guilt spread through his body like the flesh flies through the town. If he hadn't been so careless, if he had been careful, then he wouldn't be in this position and he wouldn't require aid. The Argonian died because of him, and he felt that he had to apologize.

"This one is s'rrry for yar loss" he said as he nodded towards the Imperial's dead companion. "If I had beeen more car'ful, than he wud'nt of dead." The Khajiits head dipped in remorse and sorrow, but he quickly raised it as he drew out his notepad.

"I em trying to get sum knowl'ge of th's." He informed the duo, and scribbled down what he had experienced. He had started a new page, which he titled "The Black Death"

---

The Black Death

The Black Death is a viral infection, not something of magic. Such signs of magic would be apparent, but they are not. This disease seems to cause massive tissue dementia, severe brain damage, and...reanimation. This disease seems to be contagious, only spreadable through transfer of bodily fluids. Once infected with this disease, the infected organism seems to change rapidly, within one minute, into a zombie. It seems that there are two tiers to this disease, which I will name Major and Minor. The Major form of Black Death seems to cause almost no tissue damage, but extreme rage and hemorrhaging of some black bile. They are hostile. Minor forms of Black Death are reanimated corpses that have suffered major tissue damage, and are not as strong as their major counter-types. They are hostile as well. Both Major and Minor forms seem to have lost their sense of pain, making them very tough creatures to kill. I advise you watch your back.

This is all I know for know.

---

¹Black Lungs is a fictional disease I created.

OOC: Solidor, do arrow headshots kill the zombies? A body shot wouldn't do much, but if we hit them in the head, would it auto-kill, or at least hinder it? The guardsman is an NPC, someone who is with Evil Pigeon.

IC:

Josiah, An-Zaw, Longmont Tavern

"I'm Norwin of Greenheart, i'm not sure how much good my arrows can do against such creatures, in all my travels i've not seen anything like them. I have some knowledge of magic and I can tend to the wounded. I'll stay behind if need be, but our best bet would be to stay organized and aware."

A Bosmeri approached Josiah just after he had asked the Altmer the question. Josiah wasn't offended, and he figured he would get along well with the Bosmer. He looked like a hunter, exactly what Josiah was.

He looks like a hunter...it's good he has some knowledge of magic, but I doubt it will do any good turning the disease...maybe he can heal some scratches though...might be useful if we have to escape this place...

The Redguard nodded at the Bosmer with a respectful eye, and took his tone to a low voice, so that only he, Norwin, and the Altmer could hear.

"You look like a hunter...I'm one myself..."

Josiah's voice now grew more stern, as if he was addressing both of them. It wasn't really a bossy tone, but more of a leader-like tone.

"What I need you two to do is get things organized. Try to rat out this panic and find out what everyone left in this room is capable of and if they are armed..."

Josiah looked back to count the number of people who were still in the tavern room, then he resumed his tone.

"Seems to be about nine more of us in here. Get that fellow that helped move the tables to help you, he'd be glad to help...I'm going up to the roof to see these things. I'll tell the bartender to check the supplies. We don't know how many of these things there are, but we need to arm everyone in here, even if they have to use a floor board...Now, Norwin, I've never seen anything like this either, but I want you to find out if anyone in this room knows anything about magic, necromancy, or diseases. I've never seen anything like this, but if we can get a good idea of what this is, it will do us good-"

Acraeus, the bartender, came through the door.

"Josiah, come on..."

The Imperial was followed by the bouncer, and each held an ale bottle with a rag sticking out of it. The rag was on fire. Josiah nodded at Norwin and the Altmer, and stopped at the door which led upstairs. One could either keep going up the steps, or stop at a door at the end of the second floor's hall.

"Acraeus, search the room for supplies...we'll go see what these things are. We need to get everyone settled and find out what we have in this tavern..."

Acraeus' face flinched as if he was ready to argue, but the bouncer tapped him on the shoulder, giving his companion advice.

"Go check the supplies...It'll be fine..."

Acraeus nodded, and proceeded down the hall. Gro-shog Ma-Sholug and Josiah continued up the stairs to a ladder, which led up to a small ceiling hatch. The two went up the ladder and met the two Fighters Guild men at the top, along with An-Zaw.

"Damn...what is this?"

Derik cursed under his breath. There were hardly anymore undead left standing, only a few. An Imperial, Khajiit, and a white Argonian stood there in the open. A Dunmer also stood a distance away, and if one looked far enough, he could see an Imperial soldier. Josiah scanned the area, and saw two Argonians on respective one-story buildings near the tavern. He yelled into the air, waving his hand and signaling them. He then turned his head back to Derik, who apparently was ready to say something. Derik pointed off into the distance, towards a small building.

"There's the Fighters Guild hall. Quite small in this town, only six of us stay there..."

He continued, shifting his hand over to another building, which was larger than the first.

"That's the barracks. The guards should be out here in no time..."

Then he saw it, the squad of Imperial soldiers surveying the dead. Darius was looking in a different direction, and he yelled randomly.

"Watch out!"

One guardsmen, who was knelt down beside a body, was literally jumped by a one armed zombie, who didn't hesitate one bit before biting into the guards neck. Black liquid shot from the guard's eyes. It was inhuman. Josiah grabbed his bow and readied his arrow. He heard An-Zaw say something from behind him, something about the zombie.

"The Argonian...it has black scales...black scales..."

An arrow hit the air, sailing in a straight motion, bending the wind. It hit the Imperial guard square in the neck, next to the bite. The Argonian zombie now had fallen off, in the process having its spine damaged by the Imperial reaching back at its head. The Imperial guard, now zombie, fell to the floor.

Now, we just have to see if he gets back up...

Xa-raku stared at the zombies for a good while before his attention was caught by a redguard, signalling to him from the nearby tavern. A survivor, apparently. Xa-raku waved back at him and began making his way over the roofs towards the tavern. He thought he had a clear path to the building, but as his feet contacted with a rotting wooden roof, he felt it creak under his weight, and collapse a split second later.

Throwing his weight forward, Xa-raku kicked off of the roof just before the pieces were in freefall, and rolled towards the edge of the building where he leaped forward, grasping onto the vine-covered side of the tavern. He deftly climbed up the edge, now being more careful at distributing his weight so to avoid another accident like that. His hand finally caught the roof of the tavern and he climbed up, getting a closer look at the people there. "How can I help?" He asked them, more in the tone of an ordered question expecting a response rather than a polite offering.

OOC: sorry for the short post, but I'm in a bit of a rush right now.

IC: Fanier's attention was caught by a fit-looking redguard, who had asked him about his ability to fight. As he was about to answer, a Bosmer began talking to the redguard, seemingly out of nowhere; so Fanier remained silent and joined in with the group of people that seemed to be forming around the Redguard. As he listened in on the conversation, it became apparent that both the Bosmer and the Redguard were hunters. That's a good crowd to keep with, he thought. Especially with those things out there.

The big orc bouncer and the bartender, who had served Fanier quite a bit of scotch that night, joined the Redguard. Before departing, he had asked Fanier to assemble all the capable men and women for their party. Fanier turned to address the crowd. "Excuse me," he said, but the noise in the tavern was too great for anyone to pay much attention. There were men panicing, women crying, and others in to much distress to focus. "Excuse me!" he said once more, raising his voice. The crowd remained disorganized and loud.

Screw this, he muttered under his breath. "EVERYONE SHUT THE [censored] UP!"

The noise within the tavern immediately dissipated and turned their heads toward Fanier, looking as though they should know what was so important as to interrupt their despair. "NOW LISTEN!" he yelled again. "We're assembling a party here. If you can hold a weapon, line up by the staircase now! If you don't feel like leaving the tavern with us, then stay here and try your luck. Whatever's out there, it'll be in here before long."

A small amount of conversation aroused once more, and most of the people in the tavern began making their way toward the staircase. Fanier moved to meet them there, with a slightly satisfied look on his face.

Neteo looked around the room, scanning over everyone else that was stuck in the tavern with him, and mostly those whom were a little too noisy. He was growing increasingly annoying of how the Imperial not several feet beside him bawled on and on, crying that they were all doomed and they would all die.

Keep that up, and you'll be among the first... The Argonian thought, rubbing his head as if he had a migraine and slowly making his way past the others and towards the bar. He didn't want to be near a window when the zombies returned. And if the noise kept up, that would be sooner then they thought. Instead of doing something about it, Neteo walked over to the staircase that led to the second story of the inn and leaned against it. Right as he did, a bystander whom looked like an elf decided to take matters in his own hands by screaming over the commotion to shut everyone up. The lizard felt both glad and irritated by the elves sudden shouting. The curse wasn't even necessary.
The elf spoke of forming a party, unfortunately right where Neteo was leaning; the stairs. As he continued, several persons, either locals of the town or travelers made their way to the stairs resulting in a mental frown forming in the Argonians mind. Albeit going outside was probably their best bet at survival, but if the noise and commotion didn't die down although it was temporarily, their little plan to go outside wouldn't work because they'd all be dead.

Neteo spotted the elf that told the speech and quickly made his to him, maneuvering his way past the lumbering civilians that tried to move about the inn. It seemed the elf was heading the way Neteo was, so the crimson reptile intersected and stopped him in his tracks.

''Excuse, Mr. Shouting Man...'' Neteo started, looking around for some particular reason.

''If you know anything about the undead, you'll know that they are attracted by sound. I don't know how many are out there, but they are probably already alert to us being in here. So whatever you have planned, it would be best to execute it as quickly as possible...''

Even if his voice didn't show it, Neteo was beginning to grow more and more concerned as the minutes passed. From what he could examine, these zombies were different then any of the ones he had seen before.

ooc: meh post and bump.