Three years after the uprising and eventual victory of the Stormcloaks and the defeat of Alduin. Tensions between the Thalmor and the Empire are strained but the Nord's of Skyrim continue to prosper on their own steam. Though due to the mistreatment of Elves and beast races in the province, it is of little wonder that the Thalmor have easy access to information on Stormcloak operations. However, when war is once again almost upon us, something seems to call our from the core of the world itself. Every politician, millitary group and wealthy organization clamour to find out what it is that has awoken at the hear of Nirn behind the walls of the hidden Dwemmer city, and until it is found, all thoughts of War are forgotten. For the time being.












Rules

1. No character controlling
2. All sheets must be approved
3. No altruistic/all seeing or uber characteristics.
4. Try not to argue or upset each other, if you must, take it to the inbox
5. Keep OOC posts to a minimum if you can, if its not that important PM the affected party of whatever you need to say
6. If you cant post or are dropping out, let us know so we can do something with your character.
7. Just use common sense and you'll do fine



Character sheets


Solidor

Spoiler

Name: Almerion
Race: Nord, Vampire
Age: Born at the end of the second Era.
Appearence: Almerion displays two appearances, one of a feeble old man, stooped and weak wrapped in a cloak and bent almost double due to his weak back and arthritis riddled bones, he wears a cloak so large that the only part of his face people can see is a long white beard dropping from bellow the shadow of his hood. However, this is simply misdirection, when he allows others to see his true form he stands as tall as any Nord at a modest 5'10, his body is lean with little bulk, his hair is almost of spun silk, falling down past his shoulders in white strands that he ties with a blue ribbon. He rarely removes his cloak unless those he is with are trusted to know of his vampire nature.
Apparel: Almerion wears tailored clothes, a black knee length fur coat over a white silk tunic and black cotton pants, his left arm is covered in white bandages which he never removes due to an odd collection of burn scars. He wears soft black leather boots and has rarely been one for practicallity or protection when wearing clothes.

Weapons and misc: Almerion prefers to use unarmed combat rather than weapons since relying on weapons can be unreliable. He carries a gnarled old wooden staff to help him “Walk”, when pretending to be feeble.

Abilities and talents: Almerion is a proficient and fierce combatant, a user of martial combat rather than weapons, he always seeks to undermine his opponents and use everything to his advantage in the theatre of war. The only other art he has studied in his years as a vampire is that of Alteration, he considers himself a master of the art but often realizes he still has much to learn.

Personality: Cold, calculated and conservative. Almerion was once a man of passion who let his mistakes burn out that flame in his heart to become something more meticulous and wise. While others might be arguing or preparing to fight, Almerion will be taking in the subtle nuances and details of the room before making his move. He is however, quick to laugh at even the most childish and unintelligent jokes. He finds a certain serenity in peaceful contemplation but follows the dramas of the world with eager amusemant.

Biography: Almerion was born to an Imperial captain who served in the Legions of Tiber Septim. His father retired to a vineyard in Skingrad which Almerion (who was named Marcus by his father) eventually inherited. In this time he eventually married but lost his wife shortly after. When entering a streak of self destruction he attracted the attention of a Vampire named Gabrielle after making contact “Marcus” was turned into a Vampire and subsequently renamed Almerion by his new master. After many years they parted ways. He spent some time in the thiefs guild before eventually being confronted by his old master, after his defeat he left the thieves guild in disgrace and travelled alone until eventually spending some time with the dark brotherhood. What heppened from there on is much of a mystery (or a major spoilet alert if you read my fanfiction) though after the oblivion crisis he traveled the provinces making contact with the many vampire clans before coming to Skyrim where he settled with much of his amassed wealth. After the defeat of Alduin he moved to Markath where he funded much of the Court Wizards research, he is now prepairing to venture into the Dwemmer ruins bellow the city, and if offering to pay for any expeditions from Skyrim on Ulfrics behalf.


Name: Mashab "Steel Tusk" Gro-Vod, goes by "Mash" by most. Only the Orcs of his clan use his full name.
Age: Early 30's
Race: Orc
Appearance: Mashab has dull green skin, the colour of samp moss. Much of his body is riddled in burn scars though not from battle, the are from his work as a blacksmith. He keeps his hair shaved and his beard trimmed since it so often gets singed by the forge's sheer heat. His body is bulky with weight from his years of manual labour. His tusks appear to be made of steel, which he keeps polished and bright.

Weapons: Mashabs form of combat is unrefined at best, he relies on his presence to unnerve enemies and swings madly until either he or his adversaries are down. He uses two hammers, his fathers forging hammer and his grandfathers forging hammer. They are essentially used as maces.

Apparel: Mashab always wears leather overalls and an appron when traveling or working, they serve their purpose to protect him from the heat of the forge and its metal so they suit him fine in combat.

Personality: Stubborn to a fault but kind hearted to most people. He takes the honour of his name and his clan very seriously and deeply respects those of similar tradition. He always seeks to perfect his craft and has always been in awe of the dwemmer and their craftmanship.
Abilities: Mashab is a master craftsman, smith and artisan with the strength of an ox (as with most orc) though he has little else to call talent.

Histoy: Mashab was born to a long line of Orc blacksmiths. In his clan the tradition was to use both your fathers and his fathers hammers to forge your own as an apprentice, then from that moment onward you carry both Hammers as a symbolic gesture to your family line. Mashab learnt the art from an early age from his father, though he eventually left his clan's stronghold in the rift when it was ransacked by bandits. Much of his family survived and sought refuge with the other orc clans but Mashab took the opportunity to travel the land's an apprentice himself to many craftsmen.

However, in his time travelling Mashab was taken by bandits who wanted to ransom him back to his family. When Mashab refused to tell them which clan he belonged to they considered torturing him. The chief however knew the futility of torturing a stubborn Orc and instead had his men painfully grind down Mashab's tusks. Mashab who was humiliated and tormented by this, eventually broke out of his cell in a rage and using a discarded candle stick, brought down each of the bandits in his path (though he later realised the bandit group was not a great one, having only three members besides the chief). He eventually confronted the chief who, like the coward he truly was, begged forgiveness and mercy, offering Mashab his prized steel sword of Skyforge craftsmanship as a bargaining chip. Mashab took the sword happily, then used it to skewer the chief. When he eventually made it back to civilization he spent months trying to forge a new set of tusks as his prize. Using his newly acquired Skyforge steel as his medium.

He eventually came to Markath due to his fascination with the Dwemmer and got himself noticed by a wealthy nobleman named Almerion, who has been funding his training ever since. In return Mashab helps the old man with his daily activities much like a man servant, even his more darker needs though he does not always approve of his masters appetite.

Trixy901
(If your not using both sheet's let me know which to remove)

Spoiler

Name: Abreal
Age: 25
Race: Nord
Appearence: Pale, dark brown eyes and long blond hair (about 3' feet of hair, which she usually keeps tucked up under her hood) . She is about 5'7" and slender, but strong looking. She is very pretty.
Talents: She has trained in stealth for many years, and she's a whirlwind with two daggers. She's very fast.
Apparal/weapons and such: Dark shrouded armor with a hood. (Not DB armor, but looks like it.) . Her weapons consist of two small daggers. She has about 50 gold on her, but she's left everything back at home.
Background: Abreal grew up a citizen of Skyrim. She was kicked out of home when she was 16, and started off on her own. She started learning all the trades of the perfect theif as soon as she was out making a real name for herself. She has no need for a theives guild, though Brynjolf begs her to join when she goes down to the Ragged Flaggon, the only place she can relax for a bit without worrying about guards rooting her out. She made her way to Markarth because of the rich citizens who lived there, and it was the only place acctually she hadn't really racked up that big of a bounty.

Smig

Spoiler

Name:Leo Lucius
Race:Imperial
Age:30
Appearance:1.75m (~5' 7''). Slim, very light in his feet. His hair is black and he puts a lot of effort on it. It's perfectly trimmed short and carefully combed to look messy. No facial hair. He has big brown eyes and always a smile on his face. Most would consider him attractive.

Class:Rogue

Talents skills and or abilities:His main strengths are speech and his cunning in general. He has a nack for talking his way out of sticky situations. He's also competent at sneaking, detecting/disarming most traps, picking most common locks and, if really necessary, use his blade to defend himself. Barter is also one of his main skills.

Apparel, weapons and Misc:He uses a full set of leather armor while adventuring, except a helmet since it could ruin his hair. He carries a short sword, a knife, a bottle of Cyrodilic Brandy, various utility potions and plenty of lockpicks. He always carries as little as possible so that he can carry back more loot.

Personality:Egocentric, womanizer, playful and very social. Sometimes he can be annoying, especially with his sarcastic remarks. He's not one to get angry easily, tends to see the irony in every situation and play down its dangers.

Background:Born in a big family from the Imperial City. Both parents ran a general shop selling items that tended to have shady origins. Without much supervision, Leo and his siblings, were free to roam around the city, getting themselves in all sorts of trouble every time. Some small thievery of useless things and pranks were their everyday occupation.

As Leo got older, being the free spirit that he is, he started traveling all over Cyrodiil. He started a strong relationship with alcohol and he met some women along the way... ok, many women. Between all the romance, the drinking and the socializing, he found this Bosmer adventurer. He was mesmerized by his stories about all these caves, ruins, treasures! All of those stories really resonated with him. He wanted to feel that thrill! Going into dangerous places, taking its treasures and selling them for countless Septims... visions of gold and excitement led him to accompany the Bosmer.

He learned the ropes quickly. The Bosmer had a paternal attitude towards Leo, he cared about him and he felt proud to be teaching someone his tricks. Leo learned how the creatures think and how to deceive them. When to move and where to move. How to avoid traps and pick locks. He even shown him a few tricks with a blade, not to attack but to defend yourself if needed. The Bosmer explained to him that a creature can spot you at the worst times so you have to be ready. This is a lesson that Leo will never forget, especially after that happened that same night: as the Bosmer was sneaking past a goblin, he was seen, and in a matter of seconds, that small corridor was filled with dozens of them, trapping the Bosmer inside.

Leo ran and survived.

He matured with this experience. He developed a conflicted relationship with his memories of that night and his decision to run away. He'll argue with anyone that he did the right thing, but deep down, he wishes he would have stayed. He became more conscious of how quickly one's life can end. That didn't stop him though, by that time, Leo was addicted to the hunt for treasure. The vision of valuable items in an unexplored cave was simply too tempting for him and he gradually built up the confidence to do it by himself.

Not Provided

Spoiler

Name - Arcturus Novius
Race - Imperial
Gender - Male
Age - 37

Appearance - Arcturus is tall, pale skinned and fair haired; it's often been suggested that he might be of Nordic descent, although he has no proof to back such claims up. He was once extremely handsome, but war has hardened and scarred him so that he looks more intimidating then anything else.
Skills - Arcturus is a trained light soldier, and is highly skilled at combat with a sword and shield. He has some talent for sneaking around, which has come in handy often in his line of work. He is a trained archer, although it's not his preferred variety of combat. He knows some basic Restoration and Illusion, enough to heal minor wounds and make mild changes to the dispositions of others. He can pick locks, although he's no master at it.
Inventory - He wears a full suit of Mithril armor, and wields a steel short sword. He has a small crossbow, with a small selection of poisoned bolts designed for piercing armor.

Biography - Arcturus was born in Cyrodiil; his father was a respected Legate in the Legion, and he grew up in complete awe and respect of him. As soon as he was old enough, he joined the Legion and began to train as a light infantryman, doing a large number of missions for the glory of the Empire. When the Skyrim Civil War broke out, he was deployed as an auxiliary unit, mostly doing covert sabotage and raid missions to weaken the Stormcloaks.
However, as the war went sour, he was moved back to Cyrodiil, where he was inducted into the Penitus Oculatus; his particular function in their ranks was among the most secretive jobs in the Empire; working against the Thalmor. If the Thalmor ever discovered his purpose, then it could potentially mean open war between the Empire and the Dominion, and so his existence was kept a secret from all but the Commander of the Penitus Oculatus and the Empreror himself.
He spent the next few years sabotaging Thalmor Justiciars, assassinating ambassadors and in general trying to hinder the Thalmor, without drawing so much attention to himself that they'd make the connection between the different raids on them. He's now been sent to explore the depths of the lost Dwemer city under the persona of a greedy but wealthy treasure hunter, with his true mission being to make sure that nothing beneficial can get into the hands of the Empire's enemies, under any circumstances.
Personality - Arcturus is a strong willed, loyal person. He has a staunch sense of duty to the Empire and to the Medes, and will stoically carry out any task given to him, no matter what.
When off duty (which is rare) he comes of as quiet, polite and reserved, as he believes any good citizen should.
However, on the inside he's not nearly as calm at all; to put it bluntly, he's an emotional wreck. He regrets every enemy soldier he's ever killed, and has constant doubts about the honor and duty he's forced himself to have. He fears for the possible victory of the Thalmor (especially considering the dark, omnicidal plans he's seen in documents found in their bases, or overheard while spying on their meetings) and is cynical that the Empire could ever emerge victorious.
Of course, he's never revealed his internal turmoil to anyone else, instead choosing to wrap himself up in a shell of duty and justice.

Alex25
(If your not using both characters let me know and I'll edit one out)

Spoiler

Name:Atheleen
Race:Altmer
Appearance:Tall even for an altmer and very thin.His skin is a pale gold, even paler than most altmer due to the amount of time he spends indoors and his hair is golden and quite disheveled. He looks rather young by human standards due to his magic powers but his pale skin and gaunt appearance may give an impression of illness.
Talents skills and or abilities: Very proficient in most fields of magic, Atheleen is considered one of the greatest living experts in the fields of alteration and conjuration despite being quite young for a wizard. He is also highly skilled in restoration, mysticism and destruction and far above the average in all the rest although he is a poor alchemist. His skill with weapons are limited to telling the pointy bits from the handle and he has never shot a bow nor has he picked a lock.
Apparel, weapons and Misc: Several sets of enchanted gray robes and a large bag that contains a huge amunt of magic books and a few blank journals for recording whatever magic he might encounter.
Background:Born in the Summerset Isles in a high class family Atheleen was considered a very talented mage even for an Altmer and he left his home to study with the psijic in Artaeum before his 200'th birthday and spent the next 586 years there becoming one of the most learned members of the psijic. However his hot temper and difficult personality as well as his radical ideas resulted in a lot of conflicts with many of the council members including lore master Celarus, the leader of the order,despite this he did attain the rank of master although he never became a member of the Council. Dissapinted by the increasing passivity of the order Atheleen left Artaeum to study magic all around Tamriel, eventually becoming Divayth Fyr's student for a brief period of only 59 years. Afterwards he returned to the Isles for a short time hoping to influence and aid the Thalmor. Disilusioned with the works of the Thalmor goverment after a few decades of frustrating work he used his influence to get appointed as head a Thalmor research party and is currently investigating dwemer ruins in general and the loss of a number of scouting teams in particular.

Name:Sinks His Tail,
Nicknames:Sinks, Tail
Gender:male
Race:Aragonian
Age:27
Appearance:Sinks His Tail is rather small and slim but very agile. His skin is a dark shade of green and he has four short horns on the top of his head.
Talents skills and or abilities: Although skilled with a sword Sinks His Tail prefers to take his enemies by surprise and as such is very adept at sneaking, alchemy and illusion and feels at home wearing light armor. He can swim very well even for an Aragonian and he is strangely powerful for someone who doesn't appear to posses any muscles to speak of. He is also quite cunning and very good at persuading people.
Apparel, weapons and Misc:Sinks owns a pair of glass daggers that are his most prized possesions. He doesn't have any other armor and usually dresses in middle class clothes.
Background:Sinks doesn't know where he was born but he was found at an early age in Narsis by a Redguard named Leslay who was employed as a mercenary and who took him in memory of a childhood friend who saved him from drowning. Sinks His Tail spent most of his life with a mercenary company and trained with his adoptive father, also bounding with Valur Otheril the leader of the mercenaries, a dunmer who knew quite a lot about silently killing and who found a eager student in the aragonian. When Sinks was 23 the company disbanded after many of them were killed and Valur was crippled by a wizard in the fight. Sinks then went from one job to another finally ending up in a xenophobic Skyrim where his skills are at the service of the highest bidder.

Eric Snowmane

Spoiler

Name:Eric Snowmane

Race:Nord

Age: 45

Appearance:5'11" and 235 lbs of muscle. He has long, brown hair that extends to about the middle of his shoulder blades and a full beard that is about the length of his fist, although both are starting to grey, hence the name "Snowmane". He has a scarred body and face, with a prominent gash over his left eye from an enemies' dagger.

Talents, skills, and/or abilities:Extremely deadly with a battleaxe, and he can intimidate the average person to the point where violence becomes unneccesary.

Apparel, weapons and Misc:A Dwarven Battleaxe that was given to him by his grandfather upon joining the Legion, that he calles "Bloodaxe" because of its rough, jagged edge that brutally cuts up his foes. He also has his old Imperial Heavy Armor from his time in the Civil War fighting for the Legion

Background:He hails from Rorikstead. He joined the Imperial Legion in the Civil War, following a long standing tradition, dating back to the Oblivion Crisis, of the 1st male child of the family joining the Legion to bring honor to the family. He saw plenty of action, always wanting to be at the front of every invasion, earning a reputation as a no-nonsense warrior and feared opponent. Even the Stormcloaks knew and feared him. He was discharged shortly before the Legion's defeat in Solitude, because he took two arrows to the chest, resulting in months of serious pain that has, thankfully, subsided with some physical therapy and exercise.

After his discharge, he returned to Rorikstead and began a simple life of living on the family farm doing farmwork, however it never satisfied him like fighting did. He tried hard to adapt to civillian life, but couldn't, so he jumped at the call for people to search the Dwemer ruins, knowing that there could be trouble for the scholars, and a warrior's presence might be needed.

Tommy Bozzer
(If your not using both sheets let me know and I'll edit one out)

Spoiler

Name: Taliah
Race: Redguard
Age: 25

Appearance: Standing at 5'8, Taliah has a lean, but athletic build.Her skin tone is typical of that of a Redguard, but a bit darker than most due to longer exposure to the sun's rays.Her hair is black and braided on the front right side. Her dark brown eyes pierce out of white tribal paint across her eyes with small lines jerking off towards her forehead.

Skills & Abilities: Taliah has admirable skill when wielding a scimitar, either one handed or duel wielding, she's skilled with both but prefers dual wielding. Despite her skill with scimitars and curved blades, to her, straight swords feel clunky and awkward in use.Another skill she has is alchemy. Even in a desert, where ingredients could be considered rare, she manages to scrounge up enough for potions and poisons. The poison usually features snake or scorpion venom. She also is very aware of her surroundings, being able to detect traps and hazards from her experience in a Dwarven ruin during her "trial".

Weapons:Two simple scimitars worn on the left and right side of her body
Apparal:Taliah uses armour that in first glance, looks like simple hide armour but is in fact a more tribal looking set of leather armour, not including the helmet.
Misc: A satchel containg a mortar & pestle, a few ingredients and several poisons.

Personality: Taliah could be described as a lively, albeit naive young woman, but is still viewed as somewhat of a child by some people. Curiousity had always been a trait of her's, particularly regarding the Dwemer which had lured her to the city of Markarth in her first departure of the clan.

History: Born and raised in a tribal clan of the Alik'r desert, Taliah constantly had to prove herself to her elders.From a young age she sparred with her brother, Corvak, now battle champion of the clan who was basically her mentor and friend.

Another task she did was venture out into the desert sands around the camps, with her brother, and picked ingredients from plants and harvested the raw venom from incapacitated snakes and scorpions. By the age of 18, thirsting for adventure, she took the perilous test of "The City in the Sands".

A Dwarven ruin untouched for years was entered by Taliah and five others in the clan undergoing the trial and their aim was to recover a dwarven helmet deep in the ruin, apparently bestowing great power to the wearer. This was achieved, but only four left the ruin. After this trial was completed, the group were rewarded and it was deemed that, if they choose, they can venture out into the world, still maintaining their honour and respect of the clan.

Taliah stayed for another two years before venturing out and she travelled around Hammerfell, High Rock and a brief tour of western Skyrim. Five years later, when she was twenty five, Taliah returned to the clan who greeted her with open arms. Despite their apparent happiness, at her return, the clan were falling upon tough times due to skirmishes from rival tribes. It was around this time when they heard the call of the Dwemer. They knew it wasn't good. Taliah told them of Markarth, the Dwarven city and Calcelmo. Corvak volunteered to travel there, but they would have a weakened defence if he left.

It was then that all eyes fell on Taliah...

Mhund

Spoiler

Name: "Mold"
Race:Imperial
Age:28
Appearance:Grim-looking, He stands around 5'9 and is of average build for his race. He has short, brown hair with a neatly trimmed moustache.
Talents skills and or abilities:he's talented in all the thieves arts, some would describe him as "Jack of all trades, master of none". His fighting abilities rely upon speed and accuracy instead of muscular ability. Preferring ranged fights to melee. His major let down his his ability in social situations, though he often keeps up a friendly attitude.
Apparel, weapons and Misc:Full set of leather armour, Shortbow, Quiver of 30 arrows, Shortsword, two daggers, travel pack, several days worth of food/drink, bedroll, short coil of rope, a journal.
Background:Mold grew up in the Imperial City of Cyrodil, his family worked and lived along the waterfront. His father worked as a sailor, and his mother was a "night worker". He retains a resentment of upperclass citizenry, likely the reason for his career into thievery. At 25, He was caught stealing from the Elven Gardens District but managed to outrun the guard. With his fathers help, he was smuggled into a ship and was sent off. When he departed, he discovered his destination was the land of Nords. Begrudgingly, he settled into the life of Rifton in time to see the declination of The Thieves Guild. Hearing rumour of the hidden treasure, He headed to "The Lost City".

Muhgnib gro-Gisnib

Spoiler

Name: Fjolr Bear-Heart
Race: Nord
Age: 28
Appearance: Fjolr is the common 6 foot tall, muscle-bound, and long bearded Nord, with a nasty scar starting at his forehead and coming down to his left eye, just glancing it hugging his nose, and ending at his jaw. His eyes are as blue as Skyrim’s morning sky, with shoulder long blonde hair which is constantly unkempt. Fjolr is modest looking but usually has a blank expression on his face, all the better to conceal his intentions.

Personality: Fjolr is a treasure hunter, a Dwemer treasure hunter and has a greedy almost hungry look in his eyes. Unlike most treasure hunters he doesn’t take to looting a ruin but rather delving to its greatest depths and finding the one greatest item contained within. Such reflects in his persona, constantly moving, restless yet indefatigable, and ruthless to no end. He is always quick to make a cruel comment and never stays within a circle of people for long, both for hate of them and being hated by them. He is friendless and prefers it stay that way. His motto is ‘Coin before Company.’

Apparel/Weapons: He wears an odd necklace with a small dwemer gear as an amulet. He prefers scaled and fur armors, allowing him to move more easily. He proudly wears little armor around his arms and shoulder, maintaining most of his armor for his core and legs. He disdains helms of any kind as it impedes eyesight. He brandishes two steel axes and keeps a bonded iron shield on his back, just in case.

History/Background: Fjolr Bear Heart earned his name from a group of bandits he ran with, after being cornered by two large cave bears and fending them off by shouting and striking them while his ‘comrades’ snuck behind and placed arrows in their heads. Fjolr found solace in the name, as who would bother a Nord who had the blood-thirsty heart of a Bear?
One day, his group of bandits decided it may be more profitable to take to treasure hunting, as the rebellion gained more steam. ‘Hard to rob people with soldiers everywhere, easier to steal from the dead.’ A saying the bandits seemed to all agree with at the time. His group decided to loot a nearby Dwemer ruin, one rumored to have never been looted before.
As the descended ever deeper, the noise of clanging and odd chirping echoed throughout the ancient halls. Many of the bandits didn’t pay it any heed and those that did chalked it up to the machines. It didn’t take them long to realize all the Automatons in the ruin seemed active. The bandits found themselves surrounded and the Automatons began their attack. Fjolr, in a whirlwind of fury and battle-lust, began grabbing and smashing every little spider construct he could and when the Sphere Construct’s joined the fray, Fjolr only relished the battle more. After the battle had ended, many of the bandits were either dead, dying or severely injured. Fjolr received a grievous wounds himself, the most nasty being the scar on his face.
The Bandit leader decided to continue and loot the constructs for pieces, Fjolr became amazed. For the first time in his life he found something other than blood and battle he found interesting. He took a small gear from a spider construct and used it to fashion a crude amulet. From then on forward, Fjolr would journey into any Dwemer ruin in search of new sights and new loot.

He has since left the bandit group, many of whom are dead, and has journeyed to Markarth. A feeling he could never described pulled him to this place and Fjolr feels certain that the greatest Dwemer Treasure must be found there.

Ugliux MaximusII

Spoiler

Name: Larry Wall
Nickname: Brick
Race: Imperial
Age: 28
Appearance: 1.75m (~5' 7''). Larry is extremely slim however he isn't very strong, only having the very minimum strength. His legs are long and while his face hints at a tan the rest of him is deathly pale. His hair is short and he's well shaven. His eyes glint a light blue, there are no obvious signs of his addiction.
Hair: Short, well shaven.
Eyes: Light blue
Skin: Pale save for his face which is a light shade of brown.

Class: Scholar

Talents skills and or abilities: Larry has studied all his life and is well versed in historical lore, both on the Dwemer, daedric and nation provinces. His specific field is that of Dwemer constructs. He has very few abilities past that, he can cook the most basic of meals but can drink like a fish.

Weapons: An ornate Steel Shortsword
Armour: None
Clothing: Very expensive black suit with blue trimmings, the suit fits Larry well.
Backpack: Larry carries five bottles of flin and one bottle of potatoe spirits(Hard Vodka), he disguises them in large hip flasks. He also carries a small tent, bedroll, flint for fire and 400 septims.

Personality: Larry is schizophrenic. While sober, he is the intelligent scholar who was granted access to the Imperial Library with his own assistants. But when he drinks, Larry turns into who he would like to be, the rampaging warrior from Skyrim. As a scholar, Larry is shy, he doesn't have much of a sense of humour and is usually seen diving into some book while holding one of his flasks. But as the rampaging warrior from Skyrim, he is brash, motivated, fearless and dangerously of all, believes he is a master of blades. Even drunk, Larry is still quite awful with weapons.

Background:

Born and raised into the Imperial City, Larry was told he would always be a scholar. He was never to live a heroes life and instead become an acountant or assistant historian. This played on his mind and as he found his time spent diving into historical books about wars, he would often pretend to be one of the heroes within. This lead to his mental condition and it didn't become obvious until he was around 15 years of age.

His parents, both wealthy traders were often away from home and therefore never really caught wind of his condition but Larry was all too aware. Being intelligent beyond his years, he had begun to understand and reason with himself that he did have two minds, two persona's. Liking the idea of being a hero, he decided not to act on it and eventually his denial lead to a drinking problem which only highlighted his condition to his friends and family.

At the age of 27, he was banished from his home and sent out into the world. With nowhere to go, he turned to his passion of Dwemer and headed to Skyrim.

Lyreliar

Spoiler

Name: Yorrick Brightblade
Race: Nord
Age: 55
Appearance: Yorrick stands 6'2" and weights in at 250lbs, with broads shoulders and a bear-like build. Never seen as an attractive man, the left side of his body and lower left side of his face up to mid cheek are covered in burn scars. Short white hair on his head, and a pale shadow of stubble on his cheeks (except on the lower letf side of his face.) A long ago broken nose, with pale bue eyes behind, leans crooked to the left.
Talents skills and or abilities: A naturally talented swordsman, honed by years of fighting, and a hardcoe suvivalist, Yorrick prides himself on his ability to pull people out of, or keep them out of danger. He is also a competant gambler and blacksmith.
Apparel, weapons and Misc: Yorrick wears heavy furs at all times. He carries alternate clothing for when he needs to attend festive events, but little else for clothes. He wields his sword, the Brightblade, a steel sword that while not magical, seems to shine with its own silvery light, and an iron-rimmed targe. His pack holds a lamp, lamp oil for two days, an extra waterskin, and his fathers compass.
Background: Yorrick was born in Solitude, his father a legion blacksmith, his mother a washwoman, who died when Yorrick was three. He learned his fathers trade until he was 18, then enlisted with the legion. His father presented him with the Brightblade as a gift for his enlisting. His father would fall ill after. On his deathbed, Yorrick was warned of his family history and tragedy. His fathers last words would shape his life, and would make sure he would never marry.

When the civil war broke out, Yorrick would stay with the legion, and at the battle of Whiterun, he was seriously burned. The flames would damage his left leg and arm, reducing his mobility in both. Fire would also scorch his throat, giving him a distinct rasp in his voice. He left from Skyrim for the remainder of the war, taking work as a bodyguard in Hammerfell when he finally healed. He was hired on by a writer for the expedition.


Name: Ardis Simmons
Race: Breton
Age: 32
Appearance: Short black hair, with brown eyes and a baby face, and keeps himself clean-shaven at all times. His slim build fits with his short stature, standing at 5'7, and weighs 150lbs.
Talents skills and or abilities: Ardis is a skilled wordsmith, working as an independant writer, and aspiring inventor. He has some experience in pick-pocketing.
Apparel, weapons and Misc: Ardis carries nothing in the way of weaponry, fully believing that the pen is greater than the sword. He wears patched white and purple robes, caring little for how he looks, and wears a threadbare hat, with an old grey feather pointing outwards. He has a side worn pack holding dozens of sheets of paper, several ink-wells, and three freshly plucked goose feather quills. He also has several tool of his own creation.
Background: Ardis grew up poor on the streets of Skingrad, living as an urchin. When he grew older, he left looking for more in life, traveling to Anvil, where he found work on a small merchant ship headed to Hammerfell. When he arrived, he went from one job to another before finding his true calling as a writer. He would work for years, building up his reputation and bank account, all the while working on ways to make his job easier. He heard of the possiblity of a lost Dwemer City, and saw the chance for immortality as the first man to report on the expedition. He hired a bodyguard, and left for Skyrim.

OOC: Use this time to tell us where your character is (i.e what part of Markath/the reach) before the Jarl announces an audience with the public in a few posts time. I want some people to have a chance to interact before going in

IC:

Almerion


The sun was setting over the stone walls of Markath, the way the light hit the wall infront of the old Nord's bed filled him with sadness, to feel the kiss of the sunlight one more time would be his only wish if he where given any. He'd been sat for hours in his dark bed, protected from the beams of the sun by clever positioning of the bed. He watched as it tracked the room like a sundial and finally decided it was safe to rise. He could hear Mashab downstairs prepairing Almerions evening (or morning, in the eyes of the vampire) meal. She struggled a little but eventually relented when a dull thump resounded through the house. Almerion pitied Mashab for his work, he admired him as a craftsman but he was useless at anything else, so even fetching Almerion blood donors was a task too great sometimes. He often considered turning him into a Thrall, but Mashab was vocally against becoming a vampire, he loved being who he was and who was Almerion to take that away from him?

"Your awake." Mashab said gently, "your breakfast." He added, placing a tray on Almerions desk, a steaming bowl of red liquid sat in the middle of the expertly carved oak serving tray, a dwemmer spoon of some curiosity beside it. "Brought to the boil in a copper pan, just how you like."

"Thank you Mash, much appreciated." Almerion said, though he didn't immediately sit down to partake in the meal. "Will you be joining me?"

"I have already eaten, thankyou master." Mashab said glibly, but even without the sensitive ears of a vampire Almerion wouldn't have struggled to hear the Orc's stomach groan at the mention of food. Almerion knew perfectly well that the sight of blood put Mashab off his food, but it was bad etiquette not to offer.

"I imported some Osinium ale for your pleasure, you've been working so hard friend." Almerion said lightly. His gaze was fixed to his bedroom window, waiting and waiting, the sun just cresting the mountains now. "I believe tonight we will be attending a public audience with the Jarl. He was reluctant but I assured him that the call of gold was enough to keep him from harms way. He's been quite paranoid as of late, though I cannot say why."

"I believe the forsworn have been caught entering the city, they consider him a priority target Master." Mashabs gravely voice came from behind Almerion. "The sun is down."

Almerion moved fluidly through the assortment of furniture like he was dodging deadly traps, his hands clasped behind his back the entire way. He reache the window with some relief and spotted the fliers instantly. He'd insisted the guard put them up throughout the city. He'd publicly offered funding for any who wish to explore the dwemmer ruins bellow but was Veto'd by the high king. Ulfric didn't quite appreciated Almerions night time visit thereafter, but quickly agreed to announce funding from an anonymous donor on behalf of the good people of Skyrim and in the name of the stormcloak leader. It made him look good, kept the scholars happy and enough treasure hunters to fill a fleet would be laughing with glee at the idea of exploring an untouched Dwemmer ruin. Almerion didn't know why he was so willing to spend his fortune on such a hazy venture, but the ruins seemed to call to him specifically, like so many others claimed. He had to get in there and in his eyes, all company is good company when faced with vicious Dwemer guardians.

"They will be of no trouble, the call of gold has attracted many, it would be too dangerous to publicly attack the Jarl in his own palace with little chance of escape." Almerion said slowly. He'd thought of every concievable scenario and every one of them ended in favour of both Almerion and the Jarl, he'd made sure of it. "Now I must eat, I dont want my teeth showing at the evening soiree now do I Mash? Incidentally, what kind of blood is this?"

"A convict delivered by the guard as per your arrangement with the Captain, she was old, a darkelf caught dealing with necromancers. I believe she was born nearly a century ago." Mashab said in a monotone voice as if reading wine from a menu.

"Oh Mashab you do spoil me." Almerion said before taking a sip, he grinned and added. "I rarely get to start my day with a vintage, than you friend. I just wish the noise could quiet down so I could enjoy my meal in peace. This public audience has us all quite excited doesnt it? I don't think I have ever seen the street this full. And a full street in Markath can be quite dangerous to ones health."

"I'll have a path closed off for your personal travel to the palace tonight Master."

"Thank you Mashab, I'll ready myself shortly. How I wonder what these mercenaries will react when they see a feeble old man being escorted into a dangerous ruin." The vampire said with some amount of mirth in his voice, he hated putting on the act of a weak and incapable old man, it was completely against his nature, he was lavish and bold, he liked to flaunt his taste wealth and education since he had worked so hard for all of it. But too many times had he been attacked in the past, for walking openly amongst men pretending to be one of them. A disguise is the only thing that kept him alive, or atleast welcome. "Go speak with the guard as soon as you can."


Mashab


"Certainly master, excuse me." Mashab said before ducking out of the room. He moved through the stone house with blind familiarity, he could do it in the dark now since he'd spent so much time here. Almerion had been kind enough to provide a room and study of his own, and even converted the basemant into a forge with enough ventilation to keep the heat from being too much for the Orc. It was also in the basemant where he prepared his Masters meals, the guards had a tunnel built to this house years ago when a very important political figure occupied the walls, it was used as his escape route should he come under attack. He never did and the tunnel was all but forgotten until Almerion bought the property. Since then, the captain of the guard used it to deliver Almerions meals in exchange for a monthly fee that dwarfed the wages he earned from the Jarl.

Mashab had helped write and distribute the fliers on Almerions behalf, notifying the public of the Jarl's audience, it had been delivered to every hold in Skyrim and distributed through every merchant caravan and traveller willing to carry them. It was a wonder that the Orc was able to contain himself, never before had he seen a Dwemer ruin first hand, he'd never been brave enought to venture one alone, but tonight it was finally going to happen.

He paced through the living room, pausing to rub a spot of spilled blood from the stone tiles with his shoe before opening the door. He was amazed at what he saw, though also quite irritated. Every walkway in Markath was filled with a rabble of gossiping people, some where natives to Markath, nobles and mine workers, others looked unfamiliar and some carried weapons or staves. He even spotted a few Khajiit, which was a welcome sight to Mashab who often counted Khajiit his friends when he encountered them, he pitied them for the Nordic views and racism and was happy to see that many had been welcomed into the city on this day, though he noticed that most of them had set up impromptu market stalls and where selling all manner of produce to the passing crowds.

After a few minutes of grunting, shoving and pushing Mashab eventually made it to the end of a street, something that would have usually taken seconds on a normal busy day in Markath. "This is ridiculous." He muttered under his breath.

"You can say that again Orc." A heavily accented voice said into his ear. "I'll be needing your employers payment early this month, double my usual fee. With all this commotion it was a wonder that I got that grey skin to your basemant without being spotted." it was the captain of the guard, a very muscular, very rude and extremely irritable man name Jorvul.

"If you expect double then you earn your keep." Mashab said, he knew full well that every word from Jorvul's mouth was mere posturing, he had no leverage over Almerion. Sure, a vampire might be attacked and run out of town if word got out, but what would happen to the man who consistently delivered living flesh for said vampire to feed on? "We want a pat blocked by guard and cleared from Almerions estate to the palace. He's feeling weaker by the day and struggles to walk when the streets are empty." Jorvul knew Almerion was capable of walking the streets without any distress, but anybody in earshot didn't, and the didn't need to.

"Very well Orc, I'll have my men organise safe passage. I'll be waiting at the palace." He said with a cruel smile. Mashab returned it viciously, his steel tusks glinted in the moonlight.



OOC: Have at it gentlemen!

Arcturus, Markarth Streets

Arcturus had only been in the city for a few minutes, and he'd already come to the conclusion that he didn't like it.
The people seemed unfriendly and joyless, it smelled of sweat and blood, and the streets looked like they hadn't been swept in years. The bizarre architecture and strangely cramped streets were confusing and slightly intimidating, as if the city itself was creeping up on him at all times.
He wandered into a bar; he had time to kill before the Jarl called his audience with the public, and decided that it would be a good idea to spend some time mingling with the locals and getting into character; he couldn't risk slipping into his real personality on accident, and arousing suspicion.
The bar, which was called the Silver-Blood inn, resembled the rest of the city; it was hot and stuffy, packed with miners celebrating the end of yet another day of toiling for a few scraps of gold. A few of them were genuinely bleeding, although the waitress and the bartender didn't seem to care; Arcturus realized that it was probably the norm.
He sat down at the edge of the bar, on one of the only seats that had yet to be taken.
"Bartender, your best ale, and hurry!" He yelled, grinning obnoxiously. He disliked the persona he'd been given, that of a selfish but wealthy treasure hunter from Solitude, but he'd accepted the role without question, as was his duty.
The bartender scowled and passed him a suspiciously bubbling swill, taking his gold and walking over to another customer without a word. He was almost terrified that the ale was considered their finest; he'd had better ales in out-of-the-way villages in Morrowind, where they mixed their wine with Guar's milk.
He smirked and leaned back, eyeing everybody in the inn wearily; in the back of the room, he saw a few Stormcloak soldiers. His persona wasn't the type to get involved in politics, but he had the urge to go up and beat the hell out of them. He couldn't stand the disloyal rebels who'd seized Skyrim for their own selfish causes. Still, he held his temper as he'd been trained to and and calmly looked around for someone to talk to. There had to be someone of interest in the bar...

(OOC: Abreal got accepted, I'm assuming?)
Abreal stood in the back of the Silver-Blood inn. Leaning against the wall, she scanned the crowd, arms crossed. The place had begun to reak with the smell of dirty miners. But it wasn't long till she made her move into the keep. There were treasures in the place, that she just had to find out more about. The stormcloaks laughing in the corner across from her, making jokes about imperials and such.
But then her eyes fell upon the new comer. He had taken a seat at the bar in his, to her, fancier armor. She debated if she'd speak with him or not. As quick and agile as a cat she slunk her way through the people and slid into the seat next to the man. "Nobody just walks into Markarth with armor like that," she spoke with a nordish flare in her voice, but she spoke only as for Arcturus to hear, "Who are you?" She had her head turned towards him, but her eyes were slightly hidden by her hood.

Arcturus, Silver-Blood Inn

A young, lithe Nordic woman made her way over to him, sitting down next to him. She wore a suit of hooded armor which made him think she was likely some kind of thief or scout; or possibly an assassin.
"Nobody just walks into Markarth with armor like that," She said quietly, "Who are you?"
He frowned at her. She seemed like a perfectly nice girl, and he hated to have to use his persona on her. He grinned wearily at her, looking over her body.
"I'm Larrius. Larrius Varro," He said, leaning back. "I'm a treasure hunter, and that's all you need know, girl." He cleared his throat and yelled over to the bartender, "Bartender, another of that overheated piss you call 'your best', and one for the girl, alright?" He tossed a few gold coins on the counter and turned back to the girl. There was something untrustworthy about her; not something most people would pick up, but over the years he'd learned to spot a thief; it was the way that, despite any empirical proof otherwise, they seemed harmless. It was like you just wanted to hand over your gold before they even asked.
"So what about you, kid? Markarth ain't a friendly city, especially to a lass as pretty as you. And unlike me, you don't have a nice suit of armor to guard you, right? So what keeps you in this skeever's nest of a city?"

Leo Lucius, Markath, evening

Leo was finally at the doors of Markath. It's been a long journey to the home of Nords but the cold was the worst. "These ruins better be worth it...", he mumbled under his breath.

He stepped into the city of stone with his head up in the air, looking for his first priority in any destination. "I know what goes well with cold... good old alcohol!"

The place was crowded, he could barely make out the buildings, plus, they all looked the same to him. Many people seemed to be going in and out of one of them though, including an Imperial with an armor that flagged him as an outsider. "That, has to be the inn!"

He made his way inside to a crowded room. Miners and outsiders populated the place, there were barely enough seats. Leo leaned onto the counter and asked for ale to an obviously overwhelmed bartender. The bartender nodded in acknowledgment as he was tending to other patrons. As Leo waited he scanned the room more carefully, his Imperial friend seemed to have taken a seat near a hooded female, probably Nord. "Do they know each other?", Leo thought. He could barely make out parts of her face and he could tell she was moving in a way as to not attract attention. "What are you hiding from, girl?", he thought. The Imperial was too well equipped and a little agitated. "A man on a mission, probably the same as mine..."

His attention was drawn away from them to a mug of Nord's ale that he just chugged down his throat. An insult to alcohol beverages, but in this cold, this isn't the time to be picky.

"Another one, please." said Leo before the bartender could get too far.

Abreal
Abreal smirked at Larrius, telling that "Larrius" was not his real name, but she just played along and then answered his question. " I am Abreal. And this skeever hole? This is my life style. The men around here sound and look tough, but I've broughts tears to their eyes just twisting their arms," she paused a second to let out a cute little laugh," but on more serious matters I'm on business for a friend in Rifiten." She she reshifted her lazy, but not bad, posture when the bartender brought over the drinks. She nodded curtly to the bartender, and looked down at the mead hesitently, pulling her hood back to make vision better.

Acceidently her blond hair hair came tumbling out almost in a heap on the floor. She quickly gathered it back up tried to put it up in a messy pony tail, that would make her hair look shorter than it really was. Looking quickly around she made sure nobody else had seen that. Her hair was one of the biggest dead giveaways to who she was, and even though she had a small bounty in Markarth which nobody really cared about, she could still just as easily be caught and turned in, mabye even executed this time. But she then shrugged it off, taking a smaller sip of the ale. "So where are you headed after this little stop?" she asked Larrius.

Then a Imperial, looking to be in his late twenties, or early thirties, sat down next to Larrius. Before Larrius replyed to her question, Abreal leaned forward just a little to get a better look at him. He was an extremely handsome man, and had just probably become the excitment of every other girl in the bar, for all the other males were old, dirty, and over all gross.

Atheleen- Markath

It was evening in the city of Markath and silence was setting over the city as its inhabitants went to their homes. But all good things come to an end and the silence was pierced by an outraged shriek: "Insulting poorly bred filth!" coming from large group of elves that were coming from the Jarl's palace. "Perhaps you could shout a bit louder dear. There may be someone in Akavir who hasn't heard you." Atheleen said looking down on Elenwen. The first emissary continued to mumble in a hushed tone: "Throwing us out as if... " as the tall elf tuned her out. After living for over a millenia one got very good at ignoring people and Atheleen didn't feel much sympathy for the ambassador. The meeting with the High King held at the court of the jarl had been a bizzare experience: the only conversation between the elven and nordic delegations had been the constant exchange of insults between Emissary Elenwen and Ulfric Stormcloak and while both had remained calm for most of the meal the meeting degenerated in a shouting match after Elenwen described Skyrim as a baren and desolate place filled only with savages causing Ulfric to describe the Summerset Isles as a lair of thieves and assasins. The ambassador then called the King a good example of bad breeding causing Ulfric to retaliate by calling her a good example of inbreeding and suggesting that one of her parents had been a goblin and the meeting had only been saved by the Jarl's proclaiming that the palace didn't have enough beds to house the Thalmor party for the night. Elenwen had taken that as a calculated insult but Atheleen suspected that it was the Jarl's attempt at preventing a fight, And while the independent kingdom of Skyrim was at peace with the dominion a Jarl wanting to keep the peace came as a surprise. Or perhaps he didn't want to deal with the blood stains and the scortch marks Atheleen mussed.

"I have kept you long enough Emissary. I am certain you have more important things to do back in Solitude. My men will spend the night with the rest of the expedition outside Markath's walls and my presence here will be more than enough for further dealings with the Jarl." Technically he had no authority over the First Emissary but listening to the more powerful wizard was deeply ingrained in Altmer culture and while any elf who attained the rank of ambassador couldn't be called weak Atheleen was by far the most skilled in the arcane, so after a mercifully short exchange of pleasantries Elenwen departed taking her escorts with her and left the tall elf survey the dwemer craftmanship in peace. Markarth was a example of the skill of the dwarven stone workers and watching it was the pleasure of any worthy scholar so the mer took his time to savor all the architectural details. However night was falling and regretfully Atheleen ordered his companions to find suitable lodgings in the city and then went about doing the same thing.

He knew that most of his Thalmor peers would have been disgusted at the thought of spending a night at an inn in a human city but Atheleen wasn't like most altmer and so he made his way through the narrow streets and walked into the first inn he saw. The inn was apparently called the Sliver-Blood inn and the pvssyr seemed to hush as the grey robed altmer entered. The air itself seemed to tense as he walked slowly towards the bar. "I find myself in need of a hot meal and a room for the night human." Atheleen adressed the bartender. "And you will provide it rapidly." The bartender nodded and hushed conversations started to fill the air.

Leo Lucius, Silver-Blood Inn, evening

As Leo grabbed his second mug of ale, he noticed the Nord looking at him. Her hood was off now, she had the features of a strong Nord woman and he could see her untamable spirit behind her deceiving eyes. Leo smiled at her as he thought "Dangerous and pretty, my kind of girl."

Leo's attention was suddenly drawn away to a young Altmer that just walked in. "A Nord, an Imperial and an Altmer walk into a bar..." thought Leo amused with the sight, "I hope the joke's not on me..."

The young Altmer walked up to the counter with purpose, his serious face and authoritative tone were very telling "Not here to mingle I guess, he wouldn't be here if he didn't really have to...", thought Leo.

"So, here for some sightseeing, huh?" Asked Leo to the tall Altmer sarcastically, before taking a sip off his mug.

Atheleen

"So, here for some sightseeing, huh?" said a voice that jolted Atheleen from his meditations. A closer inspections revealed that the voice belonged to an imperial wearing a suit of leather armor and drinking something that the mer assumed to be mead.

"Sightseeing, yes I suppose one as short lived as you would call it... sightseeing." The altmer's voice was rich but distant, as its owner was lost in thought. "Sightseeing is an interesting term for one could always say that he is seeing sights and even after centuries of travel one sight is never quite like another so yes in a sense I am sightseeing".

Atheleen stopped as the bartender brought him a cup of mead, bowed and departed as the mer took the cup and looked into its depths. He was in a contemplative mood tonight for he could detach himself for a few moments from the inherent complications of his position, from all the annoyance of politics and spying and even from his research. It was almost like having a breath of fresh air so he decided to continue. "However I would not be quite honest if I would pretend that the only reason I am here is to sightsee. No I am here for... research. Research into the deepest mysteries of the world." The altmer's eyes traveled over the figure in front of him taking in the posture and the attire.

"I don't think it would be wrong to asume that you are not here for sightseeing young imperial, but for a specific purpose. And I must say I wonder what that purpose is?"

Sinks His Tail
Skyrim in winter was not a good place for an Aragonian mercenary Sinks decided. Firstly it was far too cold for any sane being to live in, so cold that even swimming, Sinks favorite activity was nearly impossible due. Secondly there wasn't much work to be found after the war and his diminutive size didn't exactly encourage employers who wanted traits like 'intimidating' and 'imposing' from any mercenary. Thirdly there were the Nords who looked down on anything that wasn't another Nord and especially on anything with a tail. Aragonians seemed to have a special place: at the very bottom since unlike Khajit they had no fur and cold blood and thus were more affected by the cold than any other race. Cold and mizerable many Aragonians could be seen doing jobs nobody wanted to do and were thus mocked by every nord who bothered noticing them. 'After this job I'll go to someplace warm. Maybe Hammerfell' Sinks decided.

However this last job was going to be diffrent. It was going to be very well paid, well paid enough so that he could retire and that thought kept him from slitting the throat of the sneering gate guard. It was so well paid that Sinks His Tail decided he deserved a treat and there was only one thing that could be considered a treat in the land of snow and bears: mead. Mead was in Sinks His Tail's opinion the only reason for Skyrim's existance and tonight he wanted to buy the best mead in town so he ignored a number of shabby looking establishments and went straight or as straight as Markath's convulted streets allowed for the Silver-Blood Inn.

The aragonian's cheer seemed to increase with each step it took and he was cheerfull indeed when he opened the inn's door and entered.

Mashab

Uncharacteristically, Mashab quickly became impatient with the dawdling crowd. He couldn't blame them for lolly gagging around the streets since most of the inns and taverns would be ready to burst with their occupancy and he wouldn't be surprised if many of the residential buildings where suffering the same inconveniences. The onnly differences between the men and women in the crowds where their attitudes, it was the only way to tell native from tourist. The natives where genuinely agitated and disgruntled by the inconveniences imposed upon them by the upcoming audience, the tourists where just giddy with excitement.

Some gaped at Mashab and his glinting steel teeth, moving aside as best they could when his stubborn gaze met theirs with the kind of glare that only an Orc could give, others just ignored him, he was just another disgruntled native to them. He managed to maintain eye contact with a distant guard long enough to send an unspoken message of don't move, I'm coming to speak to you The guard looked hesitant and overworked, Mashab could tell that he was already contemplating just melting into the crowd to get away from yet another angry citizen complaining that a reveller knocked over a prized potted plant. However, Mashab was in front of the resigned looking guard before he could move an inch. "We're clearing this road, get anybody who is heading to the palace to start moving, anybody else must leave the city temporarily so that we might safely walk the streets without plummeting to our deaths. When your done, have the guards spread the word to any residents playing hosts and any inn's."

"And on who's authority do you give these orders?" The guard said after considering the surly Orc for a moment.

"On the authority of my employer, who is funding this expedition on behalf of Ulfric Stormcloak. These people might be a huge inconvenience for you but they are bringing a lot of business to the city, I'm sure the Jarl will appreciate your hard work." The guard considered Mashab for a moment longer before nodding slowly and deliberately. "I'll start clearing a few inn's to speed thing up." Mashab declared as the Guard turned to leave, and he could almost swear he saw a brief glimpse of relief on the mans face. Without hesitation, Mashab shouldered his way impatiently through a gaggle of drunks who couldn't quite get through the door of the inn, more due to their intoxication than the fact that the Inn was approaching impossible levels of occupancy.

He recognised most people in the Inn almost instantly, he frequented the Silver-Blood often in the daylight hours when not working the forge or preparing his Masters meals, though there where a number of faces he did not recognise clustered in little groups around the room, a few stood at the bar and some sat among the cities citizens talking enthusiastically. Mashab craned his neck to see over the crowd, something he rarely had to do under normal circumstances. He noted that the usual Bartender and owner of the Inn was serving customers and his back up bar tender was walking from table to table collecting and depositing tankards and flagons. Mashab greeted both with his customary nod and grunt, they mirrored him. In some circles you wave smile and speak as if you're the happiest person in the world to see an acquaintance, in Mashab's world, you nod and grunt.

"We're clearing the streets Ordig, time to send anybody here for the audience to the palace. I'm sure you wont miss the business." Mashab said with a grunt as the bartender Ordig deposited some drinks to an Imperial man and a hooded woman. Mashab looked away as she lowered her hood, she was no Orc so he had no desire to continue to examine her. "No problem Mash, I think I can retire on the profits from the last hour alone, we've had to break into our reserves for next month, you staying for a drink friend?" He said in his heavily accented voice.

Before Mashab could give Ordig an answer an Altmer approached the bar with an air of haughty authority, or arrogance depending on your opinion of High Elves, and Immediately addressed Ordig "I find myself in need of a hot meal and a room for the night human. And you will provide it rapidly." Ordig nodded and hushed conversations started to fill the air, the Imperial now separated from Mashab by the Altmer muttered something in his breath but Mashab couldn't quite make it out over the din of conversation now picking back up in the bar but the Altmer began to speak almost absently to the Imperial. Ordig returned by the time he had finished addressing the Imperial and delivered his order. "Put it on my tab Ordig, I suspect the Elf will get his coin taken quite swiftly if he uses the words sight seeing any more times in once sentence. Some might think he's a little dim." Mashab said loudly, deliberately putting extra emphasis on the word Elf in rebuttal to the Altmer addressing Mashabs friend as 'Human', as if he was nothing more than a semi intelligent animal. "And no Ordig, I wont be drinking tonight. We're leaving in a few hours into the Palace, I have to escort my employer safetly through the city and I'd rather have my wits about me, thanks for the offer though." and with that he stalked out of the inn, glancing over his shoulder to give the Altmer a hard glare, he knew that this event would be attracting all manner of people, but High Elves are usually smart enough to stay away from Markath and Windhelm, since the defeat of the Empire neither have been hospitable to the Altmer since both cities still entertained standing orders to arrest Thalmor on sight, and most guards cant identify a normal every day High Elf from a fanatical zealot from the Thalmor and unfortunately some more than innocent Altmer have found themselve under the heads man's axe for merely being the wrong race in the wrong city. Racism was rife under Ulfrics rule, it was a wonder it hadn't spread to the Orcs yet, though Mashab suspected that their similar nature and cultures had something to do with that.

The streets where almost empty now, all that remained was a small trickle of people reluctantly moving into other areas of the city. Mashab gathered his thoughts and set off back to Almerions estate, his eyes never leaving the velvet black sky, he didn't know how long it would be until he saw the stars again.

Arcturus, Silver-Blood Inn
"I am Abreal. And this skeever hole? This is my life style. The men around here sound and look tough, but I've broughts tears to their eyes just twisting their arms," she paused a second to let out a cute little laugh, "but on more serious matters I'm on business for a friend in Riften."
He nodded. Riften? Wasn't that the Thieve's Guild's favorite hot spot? Even more reason to believe she was a thief; pity, she seemed nice for a criminal. She pulled her hood back, accidentally letting her hair fall out of her hood. She quickly began to tie it into a pony tail. She seemed a little frantic to tie it up; perhaps she was wanted, and didn't want anybody recognizing her?
"So where are you headed after this little stop?" she asked.
"Oh, I've heard that the Jarl is planning an... Interesting little exploration mission tonight, and I want in; there's money to be made for a man of my talents here, and I plan to make the most of it." He said, gulping down his ale. He'd been sloppy in his performance earlier, but he was beginning to ease into his role. He was sure that the thief girl had suspected something was up, but so long as she didn't tag along on the journey into the ruins, nobody would notice anything was off about him. He hated the thought of it, but he beginning to like playing the role of Larrius Varro, someone who was so utterly unlike him.
An attractive young Imperial man sidled into the bar next to him, and appeared to be paying some attention to them. Perhaps he was a thief or a con preparing a swindle? Arcturus would have to be on his guard. The Imperial began conversing with an Altmer, and he noticed an Orc speaking with the bartender. Otherwise, little of interest was going on, so he chose to keep his attention focused on the girl.

Taliah, Markarth Entrance

When Taliah passed through the city gates of Markarth, she was met with an enormous crowd of irritated natives and excited treasure hunters. The treasure hunters disgusted Taliah. They came from miles around for what? To simply acquire coin in order to drown themselves in mead. She was here at Markarth to heed the Dwemer's calling, a matter she deemed important. The natives soon caught sight of the tribal woman, and there were several hushed whispers among them, mostly inaudible but she heard repeat of the word "Forsworn".

Eventually, a rather menacing looking Orc with glistening tusks spoke to a guard who then dispersed most of the crowd who trickled away, leaving only a handful of people. Taliah thought about heading to Understone Keep, to speak with Calcelmo about the Dwemer, but decided against it. It seemed that would be the treasure hunters' main destination also.

Taliah remembered her first visit to Markarth. Enchanted by the craftsmanship and the stonework the city held, she asked everyone about the city's history, though most were irritated by her endless questions, they all directed her to Calcelmo. When she first met the Altmer, he was the only person she had spoken to in Markarth who didn't care for her disheveled appearance, and he didn't mind her questions, in fact, he seemed pleased that someone was taking a real interest. Now in Markarth, it seems tense and gloomy.

She slipped away into a tavern called The Silver Blood Inn, maneuvered her way through the drunks and into an empty seat. She was agitated.
I'm probably one of the only people in this tavern who truly knows of the Dwemer's calling.

EDIT: Grammar, typos and missing words.

Abreal, Silver-Blood Inn
Abreal returned the Imperial's smile with her own charming grin, but continued to listen to Larrius, who had just said "Oh, I've heard that the Jarl is planning an... Interesting little exploration mission tonight, and I want in; there's money to be made for a man of my talents here, and I plan to make the most of it."
The Altmer also caught Abreal's eyes. "What is with all these outsiders suddenly coming here? Whatever it is I have to get in on it." she thought to herself.
But then Abreal retreved her thoughts back and responded to what Larrius had said, "So what's this 'intersting little exploration mission'?" she asked curiously.

Arcturus, Silver-Blood Inn

"So what's this 'intersting little exploration mission'?" Abreal asked curiously.
He shook his head, ordering another drink. "Now, darling, the more people know, the more people will want in, which means the more competition. Besides, you'll probably find out anyway; half the people in this city are looking to get involved, and the Jarl is having a public conference on the subject in just a little while." He casually sipped at his drink, but resolved not to finish it. Being drunk during a mission generally wasn't the best path, and even 'Larrius Varro' wouldn't drink too much during a business opportunity.
The time was probably getting close; he felt tense, but he wasn't letting it show. He had to act as casually as possible; he'd done it a thousand times, and he'd do it again. Of course, he couldn't let himself get too into the role; he had a job to do. He was a servant of the Empire, not a groveling treasure hunter. If all went as planned, both the Thalmor and the Stormcloak excavations would be crippled, and they'd both assume that the other had done it. And he'd be halfway to Cyrodiil by the time they figured it out.
Of course, Larrius Varro wasn't thinking any of that. Larrius Varro was thinking about sleeping with the tribal-looking Redguard woman who'd just walked in, and it was probably showing on his face.
He smirked and leaned back in his chair, putting his feet up on the bar. The bartender gave him a harsh glare, but Arcturus merely gestured to the sword at his hip and the bartender stormed off. He doubted the man would be complaining anymore.

Atheleen

The tall altmer frowned as he heard the orsimer's words. There was quite a bit of hostility there and the elf felt quite saddened about it for short lived beings were always looking for fights instead of spending their lives on contemplating and searching for answers or questions. Quite a waste in Atheleen's opinion but even a wizard couldn't change Mundus. His eyes wondered around the tavern taking in an aragonian that was slinking in the shadows and a nordic woman that was talking to another man. Then the door opened and a redguard girl entered causing the altmer to interupt his musings on seeing various sights with less than polite works and focus. The young redguard was tense and alert and looked quite unconfortable being there. But there was something else, a slight pull of well... something. Something that was quite unlike anything Atheleen had seen, the closest thing to it being the faint feeling he had in the presence of those blessed or cursed by daedra but even that felt very very diffrently and the altmer made a mental note to watch the young woman very carefully.

The words 'little exploration mission' drew his attention yet again. Apparently Ulfric wasn't as rash or ignorant as he had thought, or perhaps it had been the Jarl? "Exploration mission indeed!" he said quite loudly wearing an amused smirk on his face and took a sip of mead. A moment later he was coughing and looking at the liquid with suspicion.

Leo Lucius, Silver-Blood Inn, evening

Leo listened to the Altmer reply as he finished his second mug of this Nordic ale. You could tell the alcohol was getting to him. "You know what they say... it always tastes better on the third..." Leo thought, as he gestured to the bartender to get him one more.

The Altmer finally stopped talking. A deep response in a completely different wavelength that Leo was in, it was obvious to Leo though, that the Altmer was much older than he looked. The Altmer asked:

"I don't think it would be wrong to assume that you are not here for sightseeing young imperial, but for a specific purpose. And I must say I wonder what that purpose is?"

"Oh, isn't it obvious? I'm here on research too!" said Leo while laughing. "Yes, it's all about the unexplored mysteries that lie dormant for millenia..." said Leo, with a funny voice, mocking the Altmer, "It's not about fame... nor glory... nor the gold... nor the women of course... noooo, not the women!" he laughed as the bartender brought the Altmer his order.

Leo looked up at the Altmer and apparently, he wasn't paying attention at all. He seemed to be bothered by something an Orc said. Leo turned back to get a good look that him.

"Metal teeth? Really?" Leo thought in disbelief. He looked back into his empty mug as if he saw a ghost. "I better stop drinking, this is getting crazy."

This reasonable recommendation was conveniently forgotten though, as soon as the bartender brought him his third drink.

I have to say, the Silver-Blood tavern must be the most popular drinking hole in skyrim right now

Almerion


The vampire looked into the mirror at the foot of his bed, quite happy with what he saw. He'd been bored without Mashab here and in his long life he read books faster than they where published, so literature had no value to him either, so to pass the time Almerion had been pampering himself -- for the first time in centuries. He wasn't even sure what he was doing. He'd shaved his cheeks and neck, smoothed the remainder of his beard to a point and stood back to admire his new goatee, his cheeks where far more hollow than he remembered and his cheek bones had the kind of definition you'd only see in Elves. He heard the manor door open and close, a long groan from Mashab and then footsteps. "What do you think?" Almerion said as Mashab entered the room. "Delightful." The Orc replied without so much as a glance.

"Something on your mind friend?" Almreion said as he removed his night shirt to reveal a lean tone body showing the loose vestiges of age. His muscles would never change, he was young when he turned, but he allowed his bod to age, bit by bit, year by year, just to see. He bent double and picked up what looked like a very round very soft cushion with a belt attached. He placed it on his stomach and drew the belt around his back and clasped it. He then unbuttoned the top of it and started placing water skins in it, though each was full of blood. He didn't know how long he'd be in the Dwemmer ruins, he had to have a supply of blood to drink before he started using the back up resources provided by countless curious scholars and greedy treasure hunters. When that was finished he dressed himself in his usual business attire, a silk white shirt and black cotton pants with ankle length leather buckled shoes. Finally he threw his knee length black fur travel coat around his shoulders and slid his arms down the rabbit fur lined arms. The jacket was similar in design to that of the High Kings, which came into fashion not long after he assumed the throne. He carefully buttoned the coat and stood back to take in his image and was happy with what he saw. In his youth he endeavoured to look as handsome and appealing to women as possible, now he tried his best to look like an old business man with too much money and a little too much fat on his girth. When he was satisfied he retrieved his old gnarled walking cane and followed Mashab down the stairs and into the streets.

With a sigh of annoyance, he pulled his body inward and stooped over to allow the hood of his coat to cover his face, Mashab held his arm out for his master to grip and on they went, shuffling bit by bit -- as fast as Almerions cover would allow them. A few people moved to the side, showing respect to the elderly with a polite smile. Almerion was a little frustrated that he couldn't survey the streets due to the vision blocking hood he wore, but it was out of necessity that he wore it. In recent years his eyes where not that of a man's, by most light they where the bright blue of his youth, but in candlelight they gave off the same effect a cats or a dogs would, but a deep red glow instead of the yellow or green of an animals. And unfortunately, since much of the light Almerion encountered was cast by candles and lanterns, he tended to give off the effect alot more than he'd like.

They eventually made it to the entrance of Understone keep -- the security was greater than ever, Almrion had to guess by the number of feet he could see that nearly a third of the city guard was gathered around the entrances to the Keep. "We're here for the audience." Mashab said when they reached the keep doors, Almerion passed a sack of coin to the Orc who pushed it into the hands of the guard captain as they passed. It didn't matter that the guard captain was spotted being bribed or paid off by half a dozen guards, they'd all have a share in the coin for their trouble.

"Greeting's Master Orc!" A familiar Elven voice called through the hall, Almerion could hear the distinct chords of scholarly excitement in his voice and smiled to himself. Calcelmo had dedicated much of his life to the Dwemmer and this keep in particular, and lady luck had given him just reward for his perseverance, in the form of a discover that could change the face of science, industry and our understanding of magic in one fell swoop. "How is Master Almerion feeling today? Good I hope?" Calcelmo did of course know that Almerion was fine, he was one of the few permitted to know of his affliction and when Almerion had divulged his secret Calcelmo reacted just as expected, with indifference. He knew Almerion was not a danger to him and his interest in researching and studying willing vapires was naught. "He grows weaker by the day, I am glad to have the opportunity to take him into the Dwemmer ruins, I fear that he hasn't long left with us." Mashab replied in a hush morose tone, just loud enough for the keep's servants to hear.

"Good good." Calcelmo replied with a kindly smile. "Shall we proceed Master Almerion?"

"Yes, yes." Almerion almost choked out the depraved imitation of a dying man. Mashab guided Almerion through the halls of the keep, following closely behind Calcelmo who nattered away to Mashab with enthusiasm as they went. "We'll be gathering in the main hall, I'm afraid that there is no other room in the Keep large enough to hold such a large number of people. Your the first to arrive but many more should be here momentarily. The Jarl's been quite confused as to how to organise these explorers and researchers since they are not on his payroll. I've suggested sending different groups down through different ruins in the area. We eventually decided to let fate decide, we'll be entering names in a hat. Crude but fair wouldn't you agree?"

Mashab gave a grunt of approval and Almerion nodded slowly, they where led to the main hall of the keep and the vampire allowed himself a quick glance of his surroundings, much of the keeps light came from the glowing crystals and fauna, much like the Dwemer ruins bellow, so Almerion's eyes wouldn't react unnaturally. The main hall was now dotted with seats which had undoubtedly been taken from every room in the keep and possibly been donated from the Jarls employees for tonight's audience. The front of the hall had a number of chairs facing the audience's chairs, the Jarls throne sat in the middle of them. Calcelmo led Mashab and Almerion forward and gestured to two chairs beside the Jarls throne, taking the closest to the throne for himself and leaving the two others for Mashab and Almerion, who immediately lowered themselves down. "When will the Jarl be joining us?" Almerion asked in his usual voice, now that they where out of earshot of any servants or guards. "Shortly after our audience." Calcelmo replied. "The guards are our gathering those who are in Markath for the audience as we speak. We should be ready to leave within the hour."

"Excellent." Almerion muttered, a deep pit of craving opened in his chest, he could hear the call stronger now that they where in the Keep. He had to know why.

'Finally, Markarth!' Fjolr said to himself as he entered the proximity of the city. The outside of the city was surprisingly full of people, a sight Fjolr found odd. He pondered for a moment, just for a moment as his attention to such details was minimal at best. He countiued to walk to the gates of stone and metal, as he did he felt a familar hum, the same call he felt days earlier. There were several guards outside, it appeared as if they were keeping the common rabble out of the city.

"Move along." He heard one of the guards begin, what seemed a rehearsed response to a man trying to enter, "The city has been cleared per Master Almerion's request. If you're not going to be on his expedition thn you'll have to wait." The guard, now clearly irritated, saw Fjolr approach. "Lemme guess, treasure hunter right?" The guard was giving Fjolr a quick glance.

"Something like that," Fjolr paused a moment, "I'm here for the uhm... Expedition? Yeah that's it, Expedition." It was obvious that Fjolr had no clue what was going on but he felt as if this Expedition was related to this pull he'd been feeling. He rubbed the dwemer gear that hung about his neck and some how was reassured that he was right, as if the peice of dwemer metal knew. The guard noticed the gear and gave him a nod.

"Head on in and go straight to the Keep, No Lollygaggin!"

Fjolr contained himself, which was more then he could bare. He gave the guard a grimmace that any sane man would fear but the guard, clearly overworked, was anything but sane at the moment. When Fjolr entered Markarth he found it relatively emptied, a sight he welcomed. He was just about to head to Understone Keep when he noticed the inn, which oddly still seemed busy. "Hmpf, nothing but drunkards!" He said aloud, as thinking, in general, he found bothersome. He turned his sights back to the path leading to the Keep.

Abreal, Silver-Blood inn
"Now, darling, the more people know, the more people will want in, which means the more competition. Besides, you'll probably find out anyway; half the people in this city are looking to get involved, and the Jarl is having a public conference on the subject in just a little while."
Abreal grinned. "Your right, I will find out soon," she said, standing, "I presume I will see you again." she nodded to Larrius, before turning and pushing her way out of the inn. Soon she was able to smell fresher air, outside of the inn. She pulled back up her hood, taking to the shadows once more. The streets were oddly empty, except for the occasional guard patrolling the streets. At one point, needing to cross the street, she quickly lept over the small stream of water that ran through almost the entire city, but then having not as much cover she made a run for the outside of the keep. Making it to the outside right wall of the keep, she was able to hide again within darkness, waiting.

Arcturus, Silver-Blood Inn

Arcturus frowned as he watched the girl leave the inn. Thief she may be, but he certainly didn't want to hurt her if she got in the way of his mission. He hoped that the two of them wouldn't cross paths in the ruins. He had a dreadful feeling that he'd have to spill innocent blood before his task was done, with the number of bystanders coming to town who were merely there for loot. He almost wished that the government had simply kept it for themselves; but then again, if they had, he'd have a lot more trouble getting in.
Realizing that time was probably short, he got up, leaving his ale unfinished. He pushed and shoved his way through the slowly disbanding crowd that filled the inn, and began the long walk up to the keep.
Noticing a grim looking, scarred Nord walking along the same path as him, he out on the most forced smile he could and walked over to the fellow.
"Evening, friend. You heading to Understone?"

Fjolr was enjoying the mere sight of the stone city, the architecture of the city was something he found somewhat friendly after spending much of his time amongst dwemer ruins. Something about dwemer buildings and tunnels always seemed to comfort him after his first trip inside one, something he never quite understood. As he was continuing his pleasant walk, which was a rare thing for him to enjoy, he was greeted by an Imperial, an odd sight for Skyrim these days.

"Yes, and I take it you are too?" Fjolr snorted, half with angst for being disturbed and half curious as few every wanted idle pvssyr with him. "Imperial's are rare 'round Skyrim these days, what else would you be here for?" Fjolr's tone become more curious and less irritated. As they neared the keep he could feel the dwemer gear hangling around his neck grow heavy. Fjolr's eyes showed his wonder but only briefly, he wasn't sure if the Imperial had noticed or not.

Arcturus, Outside Understone

There was something off about the stranger; he seemed like the world-weary, cynical type, but the look in his eye gave off a sense of wonder, not despair. Arcturus noticed a Dwemer gear hanging from his neck; perhaps he was an aficionado of the Deep Elves?
"Yes, and I take it you are too?" He snorted, half with unfriendliness and half with curiosity. "Imperial's are rare 'round Skyrim these days, what else would you be here for?" He continued, the irritation in his tone slowly diminishing.
Arcturus cleared his throat and nodded at the Nord. "Sure; a man needs to eat, and what better way to do so then treasure hunting?" He responded.
He smiled at the Nord's mention of Skyrim's new-found lack of Imperials; it struck a bitter twang in him, although he pretended not to be bothered by it.
As they approached the gates, he grinned at the Nord. "Shall we enter, friend?"

As they neared the gates of Understone Keep, Fjolr looked upon the design's on the great metal doors. His eyes grew narrow, as if in a displeasing manner, however inside it filled him with a joy he found only when delving into ruins. "Shall we enter, friend?" The imperial said with a grin.

He turned to him, eyebrow raised, "Friend, eh?" Fjolr sighed and continued up the steps, "Usually you introduce yourself before calling someone that..." He said as he went ahead of the man. The gates were open and he could hear the clamour of people as they began to gather inside.

Arcturus, Outside Understone

"Friend, eh?" The Nord sighed and continued up the steps, "Usually you introduce yourself before calling someone that..."
Arcturus laughed, grinning at the old Nord. He walked inside; the Keep was already beginning to fill up, with the guards struggling to keep everybody in order from a number of check points. A few traders were selling food and drinks, much to the chagrin of the Keep's staff.
"They call me Larrius. And you are?" He said, trying to push his way through the crowd.

Fjolr never imagined to see so many living people inside a dwemer ruin before, but here he was, surronded by treasure hunters, scholars and a wide asortment of ne'er-do-wells. He could never get over the city and how interesting it all was. "They call me Larrius. And you are?" He said, trying to push his way through the crowd. Fjolr also found himself struggling with the crowd but at last managed to push enough people aside to give himself some room.

After finding enough breathing room he turned to Larrius, "Fjolr Bear-Heart, but you can call me Mr. Fjolr Bear-Heart" Fjolr let out a boisterous chuckle to drive the joke home. No nord in his right mind would ever go by his full pseudonym, course not many Nords are, or were, in their right minds. His face returned to its normal somber/cynical look, "So you ever gone deep into a dwemer ruin before lad?"