"...I know some residents of Skingrad, and an veteran of the Fighter's Guild warrants much talk. I heard of you in conversation, and once realization came to me of our realms dire state, you came to mind as a possible ally, Wrothgar."

Wrothgar pondered that for a second.
I would never believe becoming a mercenary could bring renown, much less notoriety. Does all of Skingrad know of me? I hope not.
"In my life I have received more scorn than praise for choosing a life of service and honor," he finally muttered more to himself though it was loud enough to be heard by others. He was never afraid of people hearing his words, no matter how rare they were. "Nowadays, people do not believe in it like they used to."

He found it quite approving that the Imperial youth grabbed for a sword instead of a wand. Neither would protect him if he decided to pick a fight with Wrothgar, that much was clear. But Wrothgar had no desire of harming anyone who might prove useful to a just cause.
"There might be hope for you yet, lad," he said to the Imperial, though soon afterwards his eyes darkened with disapproval as he saw the amount of liquor vanishing into the youth's gullet.

When the gangly Khajiit came hopping towards the table, Wrothgar nearly reached for his dagger. It was a false alarm; just another dreaming youth, full of lust for glory that was far from being his own.
"War is not a theatre, young kitten," he said to the Khajiit, anger flashing in his eyes. "War is hard work and often the reward is not worth the effort. You might gain nothing and might lose all."

In a moment he was calm, once again turning towards Amontillado.
"How mighty a force do we expect for these... Dissenters to have? I do not like jumping into the fray blindly."

Pilus was on his fourth drink, gulping them down with speed. He was barely getting tipsy though. A shame. I was hoping to forget all of my troubles before the journey tomorrow. He spotted an old, but well built Nord. Pilus knew that he would be able to fight and to win. They are so a-typical though. All brawn, no brain. Maybe this man will prove me wrong. I doubt it, a Nord is a Nord, whether wise by age or not. Pilus thought. He ripped a chunk of bread off the remaining loaf and chew a few times before swallowing it and washing it down with a long swig of ale.

A Khajiit bounded over to the table, elegantly gliding like they always seem to do. Damn cat! They appear graceful, but they are no more than just furry ignorant pigs! I will be glad when he dies, maybe even I'll do the deed. It'll be a favor to the empire. Darus thought, preventing himself from spitting on the Khajiit. Slipping on his brass knuckles, he clenched his fist hoping for a bar fight to break out. Unfortunately these goody-goody two shoes wouldn't ever fight someone unless it was legally sanctioned duel or if the enemy was evil. Oh well. I'll have to save this present to him for another day. Returning to his drink, he realized it was empty and called for another.

Amontillado pursed his lips.

"Well, It's hard to say. The only thing I know for sure is that a Dunmer assassin named Mordereth, responsible for many major killings orchestrated by the Dissenters, will be there. But there's bound to be ruffians, bandits, on the move. Whether they are directly working with the Dissenters or being manipulated matters little to us. I would like to be able to inform you of all their number, but it is impossible to tell. The man who gave me word of this Mordereth was found, having seemingly hanged himself. A touching letter, written in his hand, spoke of madness. Made to throw me off and think that Mordereth was a mad-mans myth. I went there myself, to his house in Chorral, spoke with neighbors. Mordereth had been clumsy, he had written the letter when he arrived, and the ink had hardly dried when the inspectors arrived. Apart from that, one neighbor spoke of a banging in the night, he went outside and suddenly forgot why he had done so and returned to bed. Later that night, he realized what had spurred him from his bed and set off looking about. By then, I'm sure Mordereth was gone."

Amontillado's drink arrived, and he took it and sipped.

"So, we know what he is capable of. But, if what the dead man said is true, this won't be a staged killing. Some how, they plan to alert the city. To put it in a Dissenters agent's words, 'The rabble with be roused, the guard routed, and all mildly sane will be fleeing immediately after Mordereth has finished his work. Any whom are not to be combatants should have left by the end the second of-' that was all he caught. But enough, it was. The exact date was learned later. But my, how the time flies, in half an hour, we must be off." Said Amontillado, musingly stroking his chin, then taking another sip.

OOC: It seems half the party will be too drunk to leave in half an hour... So either Mordereth's plan will go off without a hitch, or the old coot is 12-24 hours ahead of himself...

IC: Jitorr's babbling stumbled to a halt when the old man accepted the cheetah-like khajiit's offer to help without any reservations, his facial expression both incredulous and elated. However, his excitement was quickly extinguished by the Nord's condescending remarks toward the young scout. Faced with a genuine objection, he immediately composed himself again, and turned a fierce glare (but not the one fierce enough to strike overwhelming fear in even the boldest of warriors) at the experienced Nord warrior.

He drew himself as tall as he could, gaining several inches by bringing his feet as far off the ground as he could. His ornate briastplate seemed to fit slightly better as he puffed out his chest and set his shoulders as wide as he could under the loose blue leather. Unfortunately, his attempt to make himself seem older, bigger, and more intimidating failed laughably as the fur on his tail puffed up, coming across as fluffier rather than thicker and stronger. However, this time when he spoke, it was not the eager, high-pitched babbling of before, but slightly deeper, more deliberate, and enunciated much clearer. "I am not a kitten, nor am I a stranger to battle, combat, nor any other martial conflict. This armor is not just for show."

When Amontillado began to speak again, Jitorr abrubptly cut himself off, though his expression made it clear he not only had more to say, but he would say it if Amontillado was interrupted by anyone else. He considered it disrespectful to argue with another while an elder spoke, but he was prepared to immediately resume if the Nord did not have the same courtesy or if the old man finished. Either way, as soon as Wrothgar had something to say, or if Amontillado finished what he had to say, he snapped back to the rebuke, using what he gleaned from the old man to reinforce his argument rather than his originally flimsy, almost verbatim repeat of what he had just been babbling. "Besides, this isn't an open skirmish... Its more like the small, quick strikes for which I was born."

Faldom, wakes up dazed feeling a little more sober, but embarassed none the less.

I can't believe I drank that much

Suddenly Faldom realizes how soon we are leaving looks around at the heroes.

Let's see... an old Nord, a grumpy Imperial, some Elf that can't decied what kind it is, a silent Orc that frankly scares the [censored] out of me, a scrawny Khajiit, and a spellsword that can't hold his liqour, the last hopes for Cyrodiil and the rest of the empire. Is Amon completely insane?

Faldom shrugged off the thought and took a seat, he could tell the Nord didn't like anyone, the only question was:

Who did he like less, me or that filthy beast? No Faldom, don't blame Khajiits for your childhood, they aren't all Shra'visk, he's the past.

Faldom finds himself staring at the Khajiit, and quickly turns away to listen to Amon.

OOC: A good point, he could well be. If everyone is wasted, we'll probably not go, but it is up to the RPers. It'd be kind of funny to head off drunk. Mayhaps briefly captured by the Dissenters? It all depends on what people do.


IC:

"I understand this," said Amontillado, taking a brief respite from his drink, "I do not presume you weak. Nor can I take a strangers words. But, if what you say is true, which is very possible, your skills may be very useful. We will see with time. But you don't need to worry about being, ah-" Amontillado's attention suddenly flew to an attractive young Imperial waiter. "Just relax, there will be a time for, ah- Hello!" The young waiter looked quite awkward as she edged away from the old man, in no way diminishing the old man's smile.

"Ah, sir, would you like me to top you off?" She looked as if she'd regretted saying the words, but maintained the smile.

"Why yes, I would." Said Amontillado, still with his smile. She scurried off, and Amontillado returned his gaze to the Khajiit. "If you have fear of being disrespected, fear not. Until you prove otherwise with your actions, you will be treated as an equal. Now please, friend, get a drink! I will pay, I will pay!" He motioned to the other waiter at the table, a male Imperial. He laughed and took another drink, clearly planning to make the best of this day. His absurd schedule may well not be followed at this rate.

Fanier poured himself another glass of scotch, just as the waitress came around with his pie. "Oh, I amost forgot about the pie. Thanks." He picked up a fork and jammed it into the pie, then brought it up to his mouth for a big bite. Just as he was swallowing, he heard the old man say the words, "In half-an-hour, we must be off."

Fanier heard this, and nearly choked on his pie. "Half-an-hour!? I was thinking we were going in the morning!" Now knowing they were pressed for time, he began shoveling the pie into his mouth, simultaneously checking his watch as he ate, barely stopping for breath between bites. Before he knew it, the pie was gone, and he stared into the empty plate before him. His mouth still full, he picked up the bottle of scotch and began pouring it into his empty canteen.

Fanier looked back at the empty plate, and immediately regretted his descision to quickly finish the pie. Not that he had stomach problems or anything of the sort, but it was a good pie and he would rather have eaten it slowly and enjoyed it. He checked his watch again. Only two minutes had passed. Great, he thought to himself. Now I have twenty-eight minutes left, and no pie.

"Okay," he said to Amontillado. "I'm ready to go."

Manus hid behind the trees with the rest of the recruits, watching, waiting. So far they had encountered two merchant caravans, both with minimal guards, and both dispatched without casualty. They had been lucky that no legionnaires had been guarding them, and two victories made the men grow overconfident. That was dangerous. Suddenly, unbidden, a memory flashed before his eyes.

"Lalaine, I've returned from the recruitment offices. I've been accepted into the Legion!" Manus shouted upon arriving home. His wife, Lalaine, came from the other room and gave him a gentle smile and told him how happy she was for him, but he could sense something was amiss. "Dearest, what is it that bothers you," he had asked. But she simply continued smiling and told him not to worry, that it was nothing and that she couldn't believe how her husband was now a legionnaire. He remembered her saying how proud she was of him, yet, somehow, he could sense that she was disappointed, as if she had hoped they would reject him.

Just as the memory finished, two figures appeared on the horizon, a pair of Legionnaires out on patrol. How ironic. He quickly ordered the men to take positions on either side of the path, and they did so, their bows at the ready. As they approached his hiding spot, he fingered the amulet around his neck, and another memory appeared.

"I'm telling you, this man is innocent. It was the noble, Claudius, that murdered the man, not this poor fellow. I saw it, and I'm sure that there were others who witnessed it as well," he had explained to a pair of Legionnaires, though they remained unconvinced. He remembered how one of them argued that, being a noble, he couldn't have possibly committed the crime, and that this beggar had obviously managed to fool him somehow. "That's absurd! I know what I saw!" And yet still, they would not be convinced. After several more minutes of arguing, one drew his sword and approached the terrified beggar. When Manus tried to interfere, he was restrained by the other. He watched the innocent man executed, and could do nothing to stop it. He remembered returning home that day and explaining what had happened to Lalaine, and the look of understanding on her face, as if she knew that something like this would happen.

Soon, the legionnaires were in range, their black stallions snorting and bucking in an attempt to warn their oblivious riders of the danger. But they didn't listen, and they tried to calm their horses to little effect. Then he whispered, in a voice so quiet that only his men could hear him. "Ready." They rose their bows and withdrew arrows from their quivers.

The next day he had gathered witnesses and gone to the leader of the Legion in the district. He explained what had happened, and used the other's testimonies to support his own. The Captain called in the men that had performed the executions and sent away the commoners. They said the man Manus had seen was a noble, and that they couldn't have possibly have arrested and executed him. It would have caused an uproar. To Manus's surprise, the Captain praised their action, and turned to reprimand him for not simply letting things be. He was then sent away, but he distinctly remembered the warning of retribution one of the legionnaires had whispered in his ear.

"Aim." They aimed their bows at the pair, whose horses were panicking. But they continued to ignore the danger, and finally began to calm their steeds.

He arrived home that night to a gruesome scene. His dearest wife, his reason for living, Lalaine, lying dead on the floor in a pool of blood. She had been run through by a sword, and though there was no evidence of it, he knew just what had happened. He felt himself go numb at the sight and fell to his knees, holding her head in his lap as he wept for her.

"FIRE!" They let loose the arrows, and half simply bounced of the legionnaire's armor, though the other half found their mark. The men fell from their horses, impaled by three arrows each. Both had taken one to the neck. Both were dead. The horses took off back down the road, and he didn't bother killing them, as there would have been no point. They had done nothing wrong. Besides, Lalaine had loved horses.

He remembered the Legion capturing two young khajits for the crime, and him being forced to attend their execution, so that "justice could be done". He remembered, with clarity, their screams that they were innocent, right up to the point where they were killed. Those screams would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He walked towards the two Legionnaires corpses and stared down at them with a mixture of satisfaction, anger, and... Sadness? He wondered briefly if these men had families as he did, but quickly put it out of his mind. Such thoughts were not for warriors.

He remembered standing over his dearest's grave listening wordlessly to the preacher at the funeral, and the words of regret and sorrow from the mourners. But he stayed silent and still, his mind a battleground as he looked at the grave. Finally, when all had left, had dropped to his knees and stared at the tombstone of his beloved. "I swear to you, dearest Lalaine, that I will avenge your death. I shall destroy the accursed Legion that took you from me if I must travel to Oblivion and back, if I must sell my very soul. Nothing shall stop me. If you were my life before, then I declare that I have a new life, one focused solely on killing those that wronged you. Every one of those fools will die, I swear it to you. And once my task is done, dearest Lalaine, I come to join you. Please, wait for me."

One of the recruits tapped on his shoulder, and he motioned for the young man to speak. "Ummm, sir, shouldn't we hide the bodies like we did before?"

"No, leave them there. I want all that come this way to know that the only thing that awaits them here is death." After the man had left, he said, in a soft whisper, so that no one else could hear. "I am your instrument of vengeance. Please, wait for me, dearest Lalaine."

"Well, then," Amontillado replied to the man whom had informed him, "If you are ready and no one else is, and care to chance the weather, I have an idea for you. Go out to the stables, no more than this Inns length from the front door, there you will find 8 horses. A White horse, A Black Horse, and six bays. You may have your pick of which you'd like. It's first-come, first-serve. Unless," Amontillado took another swig, "you already have a mount, or you're more comfortable with your own feet." He addressed it to the whole group, really, though he looked at Fanier.

Amon looked at Faldom, the quieter Imperial man. "So, if you'd like first pick, you'd best beat that one to the stables." He nodded to Fanier. The old man smiled at his own contest.
Whom would care to get a mount? Who would not take one at all? Probably the Kajjit won't. He mused. The white one is the strongest, and the black one the fastest. Who will know this? I may learn something from my heroes by this trivial matter.

Amontillado looked lost in thought. Little did he know agents of the Dissenters were about on the roads, killing Imperial Legion men and leaving them there a sign. A sign they would likely run into on their way to Skingrad, but not now. For now, he just lost himself in thought.

Faldom heard what the old man said and thought it was a good idea, he decided to go outsidee and take a look at the horses.

That black one looks good and sturdy, and so do those two bay horses, but the white one looks even sturdier. What was it they say about white horses? They are the strongest in all of cyrodiil, and only some other horses are faster. Which one is it? Damn I just can't remember. Better not take any chances.

Faldom mounted the white stallion.

"A perfect fit!" Faldom said to himself and partially to the horse. He felt so right on this horse, like he and the horse were molded for eachother. "You'll make a fine mount." This time he was talking to the horse.

Amontillado: "Well, It's hard to say. The only thing I know for sure is that a Dunmer assassin named Mordereth, responsible for many major killings orchestrated by the Dissenters, will be there... one neighbor spoke of a banging in the night, he went outside and suddenly forgot why he had done so and returned to bed. Later that night, he realized what had spurred him from his bed and set off looking about."

"I fear no Dunmer shadowbinder," declared Wrothgar calmly, without heat. "All sorcerers are cowards, brave only from afar. I intend to come close where his tricks will not work."

Still, it would be prudent not to underestimate a foe such as that. Honor is a mighty shield, but a well placed trick could pierce it.

Amontillado announced that they would be departing in half an hour.

"I will change into a more propper attire," said Wrothgar and stood up. He picked up a heavy looking sheepskin bag, opened it and began to take pieces of his armor out of it.

First he removed his glass dagger from its place on his lower leg. Then he put the armor on, piece by piece, working the buckles as he went. In less than ten minutes only his helmet remained unfastened. He then picked up his war axe, a massive piece of silvered steel and fastened it on his back. From the way he handled the awkward position, everyone could plainly see he had doned his armor and weapons without asistance hundreds of times.
Then came the longsword. Finally, he strapped the dagger back on his leg, this time over his armor so it was easily accessible.

"Ready," was all he said.

Faldom emerges back into the tavern seeing most are ready to go.

"I'll be right back." Faldom says as heads over to his items. Faldom slips into his armor as quickly as he can, puts his sword at his side sheathed, his quiver and arrows upon his back. Faldom return to the main room, dressed to kill. "We ready to ride?" he ask.

Pilus was finally feeling the effects of drinking. His head was spinning and voices were far off. Pilus was rubbing his eyes to try and rid himself of the effects of intoxication. He knew that he wouldn't be able to. Instead of trying to get his vision back, he grabbed the table to steady himself. Raising his hand awkwardly, he began to say in a slurred voice, "Waiter!? Oh waiter? Can I...uh...can I get a pitcher of water." Hoping his request would be fulfilled he waited getting used to the uneasiness, but still was in no shape to go anywhere. A large glass pitcher slammed itself down in front of Pilus, making his eardrums pound. He reached about until his hand found the handle and lugged the big jug up to eye level. The water was sloshing out and landing in his lap. Putting a second hand on it to stop the swaying, he turned it upside down letting the cold water wash over his face. It seemed to have woken him up or just made him cold. Shaking his head and probably coating anyone nearby, he tried getting up.

It wasn't successful, and he just slumped back into his chair. Oh god! This headache is horrible, but at least my hearing and vision are somewhat returning. Pilus thought, regretting drinking all that ale. He ears still rang so all he could make out of the bar clamor was "half and hour", "go to the stable", "black horse, white horse, and". He didn't hear all of it, but he was smart enough to know that they were leaving. Forcing himself on his feet, this time an effort that didn't end in failure, he began to go to his backpack taking out his gloves and steel cuirass. He unbuckled the edges, and slid the cool metal over his white and wet shirt. The metal made him shiver and he waited uncomfortably as he warmed up. He slipped on his gloves, steel chainlink on the outside and rabbit leather and fur on the inside. Adjusting his sword, he began the long swaying walk to the stable.

Once he reached the stable he saw that there were eight horses, one white, one black, and six bays. Pilus never did like bays, so that was out of the question. He eyed the white horse, but didn't like it. Too noble. I'm a mercenary for hire. Black suits me. Pilus thought. And with that he mounted the horse and began to get used to it. Pilus, still slightly inebriated, began going in circles and then broke into a gallop down the road a ways. He returned and stayed mounted on his horse, waiting for the others.

((Sorry that I havent posted lately. Alot of bad stuff happening in real life... ALOT! Anyways, I will try to rp periodically, but ima start my character off, so that he isnt in the big bad stuff yet.))

Orik walked through the woods around Skingrad, listening to the sound of the forest life. He couldnt beleive the wild rumors he was hearing about Anvil, and the lands around it. Sighing, Orik wiped a leaf off his shirt, gazing to the town of Skingrad.

Civilization, the heart of corruption.

Orik sighed deeply, noting that he was low on food and drink. Beggining to walk toward the town, Orik thumbed the handle of a dagger, his mind on many things.

Sorry about being a bit late to the party. Real life is being a [censored].))

Amontillado turned his attention to those left in the room in his party, rising from his chair.

"You'll probably be having the bays, then. Very well, I'd get saddled if your getting saddled. It's time to leave, by the look of things." He took one stepped, stumbled, and bumped into a table seating two Breton men. He sent the food stuffs on the table cascading to the ground. The old man quickly swayed back, said hurried good byes, and made for the door where he temporarily disappeared behind the Inn to emerge on his own spotted horse.

He reined in in front of the Inn.

The rain wasn't beating quite so hard now, and was slightly more than a nuisance. He pulled up the hood of his cloak, felt for the concealed dagger at his side, and sat awaiting the rest.

Back in 'The Crotchety Coot', the two Breton's are assisted by a server in cleaning up their food. They are clearly angry, and dressed in worn, dark brown leather armor and armed with Iron weapons and yew bows.

Orik was a few miles away from the town of Skingrad, the leaves rustling around him.

"I wonder if they have any pest prolblems." he said to himself, thinking of his job. Suddenly, he heard a twig snap from behind him. Pulling his dagger out, he swirled around and flung it into a.... deer? The animal collapsed as the dagger landed into its neck, blood trickling onto the grass.

"By Azura, how reckless am I?" Orik scolded himself as he walked to the body, looking at the blood trickling out of its neck. Setting a hand to his head, he sighed deeply, memories of his past haunting him.

Run Orik! Dont look back!

Kneeling down, he wrapped his hands around the daggers handle and began to tug. A small amount of blood spurted from the deers neck. Pulling a cloth from under his shirt, Orik began to wipe the blood off his dagger when he heard a voice behind him.

"Orik Menver, wanted for the slaughter of many innocents in Cheydinall."

Orik turned around to see two imperials in rugged leather armor. They both had swords in there hands, hanging at there sides.

Standing up and raising his index finger, Orik spoke, "First off." he said calmly, "They were not innocents." raising another finger, he said, "And I would like to point out, it was not slaughter. It was me, sneaking around, slitting throats, stabbing spines, and yadda yadda."
One of the imperials spit, "It is still murder, and the legion will not allow that."

Orik gripped his knife, "Correction. Will not allow it, publicly. Out in the country, it is alright, as long as you arent caught." anger trailed in his voice.

"Scum like you have no place among the nine!" one of the imperials stated before lunging at Orik!

"Oh, no, that's quite alright," Fanier told the old man. "I have my own horse. It's near the rest of them" He went outside to find his mount.

There it was, near the back of the stable. Nothing special, just a bay horse. But Fanier liked it. "Alright Perce," he patted the horse on the nose. "We're going for a little ride." He reached into his saddlebags and got out his few pieces of mithril armor and elven shortsword. Fanier fixed the sword's sheath around his back, tightened his gauntlets and was ready to go.

Fanier mounted his horse and trotted out of the stable toward the others.

Orik leaped out of the way, letting his body fall to the ground. He started rolling to a tree, and on arrival, used a branch to pull himself up.

Knife still in hand, he raised up his arms, "Hold up. No need to get violent." Orik said.

The second imperial walked toward him, raising its blade. "Put the dagger down, or I will run you through!" he said, his hand shaking slightly.

Orik sighed, letting go of the dagger. The imperial slowly lowered his blade, thinking that he was safe. He was wrong....


Orik smashed his fist into his face, making him stumble back. He quickly smashed his arm into the Imperials face, catching the mans sword as he lost his grip on it. Swinging it across the Imperials throat, Orik hummed a tune to himself.

For a moment, the imperial just stood, his partner staring at Orik and him. Then, a red line appeared around his neck, followed by some blood rolling from it. The mans head slid off as he collapsed onto the ground below Orik.

"Y-you.... you killed him!" the other imperial screamed, trembling.

Orik took a few steps back, setting his blade in a defencive position as he continued to hum his tune.

[i]Easy Orik. That one was just this guys partner. This one seems a bit angry.[/i

"Yes, I killed him. Just as I will kill every other damned legion soldier and vampire I see in my life!" Orik shouted, trying to taunt his opponent into a rage.

Letting out roar, the imperial ran toward Orik, flailing his blade about wildly.

[OOC] Had to edit it, the other guys post appeared before i could finish mine [OOC]

Hides His Eyes' Invisibility spell ran out and he appeared in front of orik and the remaining guard.
"Evening gentlemen," he announced.
There are two differing opinions what happened next. The guard swore the argonian hit him so hard that he flew halfway to bruma (but he was obviously drunk). From the point of view of Hides His Eyes he cast a spell that pushed the guards 50 or so metres away very swiftly and very forcefully.

OOC: I think we have a very confused wood-elf here...
And more on topic... Hard to keep up with the pace! Synchronization failed... attempting to compensate... ERROR!

IC: Jitorr stood down as Amontillado attempted to appease the khajiit's fierce temper. Say what you want, old man. But you don't determine who accepts me or not, he thought, percieving Amontillado's talk about accepting the khajiit as a condescending attempt to placate him with empty plattitudes. He took a half-step back, sliding into a more relaxed position as his indignant temper chilled. He'd have to prove himself to the nord, but wasn't sure how. He didn't know whether Wrothgar's dislike for "cowardly sorcerers" extended to those who used crossbows. Not that he really had a choice but to use the crossbow, as he couldn't lift a sword without leaving the point on the ground.

The young khajiit didn't really listen to what all was going on, just briefing on who Mordereth was. He was significantly more concerned with finding a way to impress the Nord warrior. "I'll walk. I can keep pace with any horse, any speed," he said, half-heartedly at first, but with more animation in his boast. He watched the Nord don his armor, wondering how anyone could wear such a stiff suit and still move. When Amontillado demonstrated his lack of agility, the cat winced, hoping that the two bretons wouldn't try to start a fight with anyone. Unfortunately, with the current anarchy here, people tried to kill each other over almost anything. At this point, he found himself wishing his claws could retract like his sibling's, just so he wouldn't be seen as potentially agressive.

Ooh i sent you it but forgot to post it. I'll go get it for you.

Name: Hides-His-Eyes
Race: Argonian
Gender: Male
Apparent age (How old you appear to be): 69
Actual age: 31
Birthsign: The Atronach


Skills (Not necessarily those that exist in the games, just whatever your character is good at): Necromancy, Illusion, Alteration.

Weapons (Be reasonable; don't start off with daedric or ebony, please.): Staff of Blinding Light, steel dagger.

Armor (Same as above): Robes of Mutilation

Misc. Items: Soul Gem belt, crystal seering ball.

Short Bio: Hides-His-Eyes was born into a slave market. He was seperated from his parents at birth and when his slaver tried to whip him lightning bolts came from his fingers and destroyed the slaver. He then escaped to the black marsh underground. After hearing of the wonder of the Imperial City he secretly hitched a ride to Anvil just in time for the plague.

Mental Profile: Hides-His-Eyes keeps largely to himself and is suspicious of all but his closest friends -> or so he says.

Physical Description: He is a little over average height and has a slender frame.

Misc. facts: Has vowed not to kill a human. An exception is Khajiits. He HATES khajiits.






Better? All else will be revealed soon.

Lone, I dont see a character sheet anywhere. Please, if you want to RP, PM Olny, and try not to joke around like that. (Jokes are fine, but not the type you would see on a cartoon on Boomerang))


Edit: Ahh. Ok. ))

Orik blinked, watching his attacker be sent into the woods, with some trees snapping.

"Who are you?" he quickly said, raising his blade towards Hide's-his-Eye's

OOC:

Dude, this is my RP. However, I'll let you stay providing you, well, RP? Don't break the rules stated in the OP and keep the OOC pvssyr down.

IC:

"Very well," he said to the Kajiit, "as you wish." He reigned in his horse, burped loudly, and trotted his horse over to the road adjacent to the Inn.

"Come on now, come on! We have much ground to take, and little time to take it!" He swayed a little in the saddle. Perhaps he should have had less to drink.