Now taking Character sheets via PM! Once approved post on this thread!

Here it goes...

Please just hear me out, the beginning paragraphs are a little crazy, I know, but I hope to include some comedy, even if it is stupid.

IDEA
----


Imagine a group of incredibly, perhaps even cornily, more than likely over exaggerated, EVIL people. Moving to displace the center of the Empire, The Dissenters, if you would. They do MANIACAL things, EVIL things. They arrange assassinations, they fund gangs all over Tamriel, and send bandit raids to hit caravans with valuable goods.

Why? What could be their goal? To be EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVIIIIIIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLL! MUWHAHAHAHA!

Well, all Evil people plan to, eventually, do something nice and evil that plunges the world (or at least their immediate surroundings) into total anarchy or something very close to it, until THEY instill a new order under THEIR RULE. Pretty freaking evil, huh?

Well, these Dissenters have been working their fingers through the fabric of The Empire for quite some time now. But, as they near their goal, the forces of good (a random group of people assembled by a crazy old man living near Skingrad on an old farm), are about to make their move. Mordereth, a Dunmer Assassin, leading agent of The Dissenters, is going to assassinate the Count of Skingrad.

If they move quickly, they may be able to capture Mordereth or kill Mordereth. Either way it would be a blow right to the Dissenters groin. Perhaps even be able to keep the region, which has recently fallen into chaos over a long friendly-feud between the cities two vineyards turned nasty, from falling into complete anarchy and chaos. Now, houses are burned, smashed graqe barrels turned over, necks cracked. Life in Skingrad is violent now.

In fact, the Dissenters have focused many resources in the Colovian West. From Anvil, to Kvatch(never destroyed, no Oblivion crisis makes life easier), to Skingrad, bandits raid and pillage road-side taverns. The only ones that have survived are new, 'The Rusty Spoon' (located half-way between Anvil and Kvatch) and 'The Crotchety Coot' (half-way between Kvatch and Skingrad). Both are guarded by mercenaries and locked at night.

Amontillado-naughts/Amon's Heroes/*Whatever the crazy dude starts calling you* (The Good Guys)
-------------

You have no backing by The Empire or any other government, just a crazy old Imperial man, Amontillado. Probably the only person outside of The Dissenters who realizes they exist.

You start in 'The Crotchety Coot', your weapons shouldn't be too amazing. No Flaming Silver swords. But that doesn't mean you are left with only your faithful spork. You are there for any of the following reasons:

-You got a message from Amontillado promising you riches if you help his 'Assembled host of heroes, including yourself' defeat The Dissenters. He explains what Mordereth is doing and everything he knows about The Dissenters, which is everything you can glean from the 'Idea' section.

-You just happen to be there, no knowledge of The Dissenters.

-You are a bandit/ex-bandit who finds this odd funding you get (you don't know the name of the group) to be dis settling/you think you could profit from taking them down and have heard about this old man's assembly for some reason.

-Any other reason you can think of, just PM me for approval.

The Dissenters (Bad Guys)
------------

ONLY apply if you are REALLY good at RPing.

I'll explain many of the aspects of being a 'Bad Guy' to you. You will gain prestige levels and have the option to kill other members (probably controlled by me) of The Dissenters. With more Prestige levels (more will be revealed if you become a 'bad guy').

Your options of weapons are... Hell, anything. But be modest, would you? I'm hoping you only try for this if your good at RPing. I'm cool with you being BAMF if you understand that the good guys need to have a chance at winning. No swooping in with your undead hordes (well, not in the first post at least).

You will be a key part of the plot. Feel free to PM me with ideas about situations and other things to do to the good guys.

I want at least 1 of these, to be my compatriot in crime and make things more interesting =)

Amontillado
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Yea, he's named after a wine. He's got some nice clothes, looks like he picked them right off an aristocrat. He seems to live a life of cumfort in his good-sized farm estate. He's not REALLY rich. But he has enough form inheritance to live well. He has a man servant who is keeping the farm while he is away. He probably won't join in the fighting unless attacked.

*Note To Bad Guys* Don't just decide to kill him. His fate may vary depending on what you do and what the so-called 'heroes' do, but at most just kidnap him, alright?

Rule (More of guidelines, really)
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1) PvP- Only with my or the other player's consent may you kill/dismember/fatally or morbidly wound them

2) Don't flame. You died? It's not to easy to die, unless your a frenzied berserker Nord, in which case you don't (or shouldn't) fear death anyway. Make another character, I'll let you rejoin, no swet.
3) Being a 'Hero' doesn't necessarily make you a BAMF, you might be, you could be an Arena champion or someone else with renoun, or a famous cook, or someone whose kind of stupid and worthless but willing to tag along. Be a goodie-two-shoes, or an evil guy in it for the kicks and/or selfish reason.
4) Being a Bad Guy, well, you could go soft, or be intermediate, or be VERY evil.

5) Be smart, you know how to RP, read Illusinaries guide if you think you might need a little refresher (or skim, it's pretty long)

6) Romance is fine, but you know that this IS a teen rated forum so keep it clean. And please, don't let this be instantaneous, love at first sight doesn't mean you're sleeping with them one thread later.

Character Sheet:
-----------------
Name: (First and last, unless you have some weird reason for not having a last which should be explained)
Nick Name: (Not at all necessary, but OK if you want it)
Age:
Race:
six: (No "Yes Please!")

Appearance: (Face etc.)
Misc. Appearance: (Tattoos etc.)
Hight: (I don't really have to know anything)
Apparel Worn Most Often: (You're traveling attire, it might be armor)
Armor: (This may be your apparel)
Other Apparel: (Maybe you have lots of clothes, who knows?)

Eye Color:
Hair Style:
Hair Color:

Skills: (Don't need to be from the games)

Weapons:
Equipment Sack: (Like back-pack, or whatever you use to carry stuff around. No Fanny-pack that carries your 7 battle axes!)
Miscellaneous: (Damn, spelling that word out just seems... special, you know?)

The Heroes or the Dissenters?: (Which faction, you can be an evil person working with the good guys for whatever reason)
Why are you there?: (Only needed for heroes, optional for bad-guys)
Background Information: (Always nice, I want to say optional but I don't want any "Mysterious Past"ers unless your a bad guy!)

(Feel free to tell me if I goofed on that, haven't made a character sheet in a while)

You would PM me a sheet if-and-when I host it.


So yea, that's my idea. Feel free to suggest anything, tare it apart, spit in my eye, suggest comic things (preferably in PM form, so their funny when implemented in RP)


Also, I'm looking for *Environment Mods*. If I can't be on for an extended period of time, or if I leave all together (I am NOT planning on that) you run the show. You talk to any and all 'Bad Guys' to keep things going.


OPENING SCENE (Crotchety Coot*The Good Guys*):
----------------------

It's a dark night, the Inn has several people, but the din does not block out the sound of pounding rain. The Tavern is surrounded by outward pointing wooden spikes, manned by armed mercenaries. The days of the quaint Inn are over in this region, stability has gone down-hill.

Amontillado, an old Imperial man with a graying, shortish hair sits at a table with those whom have received letters from him.

"Now, as you all know, The Dissenters plan to strike the count of Skingrad in two-days time-"

Some other patrons listen, some even come to the rather large table. The table is not even half-full.

"We need to ride. If you do not have a mount, we can procure one for you. We must stop the Dissenters assassin. If we do not, the whole of the Colovian West may well fall into ruin!" The old man pounds his hand on the table. "As we all know, this is a dangerous time to be traveling. The Dissenters fiends, whether they know what they are being used for or not, lurk along the roads. We must leave off from here in an hour to arrive at the appropriate time. In this time feel free to do whatever you'd like. Drink, eat, but just don't get to ridicules, we can't have you drunk in your saddles! Now, my Amontillado-Naughts, my heroes, my champions, be merry for the time left to us. I fear the road ahead will be quite dark." With that, Amontillado slumped back into his chair, motioning for the barmaid to come to the table and take orders.

OPENING SCENE (Bad Guys!)
--------------------------



(OOC: Just meant to give you guys an idea of how this could work out EDIT: I mean Baal's thoughts, this actually happens)

ame: Orik Menver
Nick Name: Ory
Age:23
Race:Half Breton Half imperial
six: Male

Appearance: Tan Breton like face.
Misc. Appearance: half of his right eyebrow is missing
Hight: 6'3
Apparel Worn Most Often: Switches between three sets.
Other Apparel: Red under shirt with black vest and pants.
Dark Blue undershirt with brown vest and pants.
Occasionaly wears red elven armor.

Eye Color:Half green, half blue each eye.
Hair Style:Fairly long, some hair hangs near his left eye.
Hair Color:Black

Skills: Small speechcraft, excellent at torturing, usually understands people.

Weapons:When he has a weapon, it is either a very sharp knife, or a elven blade.
Equipment Sack: Just money and some food.
The Heroes or the Dissenters?: Currently Dissenter, but might change depending on how things go.

Uniqe: He hums a tune when killing people.

Bio:Orik Menver always wanted to rid the world of vampires after his entire family was wiped out by them. He lived a secret life, always going on hunts atleast once a month. He choose to join the Dissenters, only to help in exacting his revenge.

Alignment: Currently Nuetral, though leaning toward good, but working with ''bad'' guys.



((Where do I start off as a baddy?))

IC:

Near the city walls outside Skingrad.

Darnmon paced back and forth, carefully watching the men and women in front of him. They had only recently come under his command, and had not yet had the proper fear of their superior's instilled in them. That was going to change, and it would change now. He stopped pacing and faced the dozen or so people, before addressing them, much like a commander would speak to his troops. "You have all now been placed under my command. You shall do what I say, without question or objection. You all must remember that you are nothing but servants, those who shall give their lives for those who rank above them. Our current task is a very important one, one that has the possibility of changing the course of history. Others of our kind are already here and operating, accomplishing their tasks and objectives. Yours shall be to guard the road approaching Skingrad from Kvatch. You shall attack and kill any groups traveling along the roads. I don't care who they are or who they look like, just insure that no one passes. There is a danger approaching and it must be stopped now. Even should they appear stronger, still you shall fight, and you will not flee." Darnmon stopped here for a moment, observing one Breton who had his head held high in an arrogant way. He obviously planned on saying something.

"Why should we, hmm. We are just as important as you. I'm descended from a family of nobles, why should I risk my life just because you say so. If it looks I'm going to die, there's no way I'm going to fight, I'm going to-" the Breton never finished speaking, because quick as lightning, Darnmon was in front of him, his hand around the young man's throat. He lifted him a clean three feet off the ground and held him there. The Breton made a futile attempt to escape as the other recruits looked on in horror.

He managed to gasp out a few words as he gasped for breath. "Let... me go... you... filthy Dunmer."

Darnmon simply looked him in the eyes, and a sudden fear took hold of the Breton's mind. "Very well then," was all he said before releasing his grip. But before his feet even hit the ground, Darnmon's open palm began to glow with power, and a fireball shot from it, hitting the fearful Breton square in the chest. He was immediately lit on fire and sent flying, impacting on a nearby tree with a sickening crunch. He was dead before he hit the ground.

"Now then, DOES ANYONE ELSE HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY!" Darnmon shouted towards the terrified recruits. They all cowered in fear and remained silent, all except one. An Imperial with raven hair and blue eyes stepped forward and gave him a mocking bow before speaking.

"Oh great lord, we would of course gladly give our lives for our superiors. However, perhaps it would be best if you didn't kill us all before the opportunity to make our glorious sacrifice arrives," the raven-haired Imperial said, his words dripping with sarcasm.

Darnmon moved again, but this time his sword was out, the blade flashing through the air, straight for where the man's head was. However, the man obviously had good reflexes, as he quickly stepped back and drew his own weapon, a silver war-axe. The two weapons locked in combat, and Darnmon, surprised that he could gain no ground, jumped backwards and shot a fireball at the man. He countered by twirling around and extending his arm, a blue glow shooting from his hand as his black cloak rippled from the movement. The two magic spells collided in mid-air, causing an explosion of mist. The remaining recruits looked on, astonished, as the two men straightened and looked at each other. You could feel the tension in the air.

Suddenly, Darnmon began to laugh hysterically. The raven-haired Imperial simply smirked. "Very good! What is your name, Imperial?" Darnmon asked.

"Manus Aletus, sir."

'Well congratulations, Manus, you've just been promoted. You shall command the men on this task. Do not fail me."

Manus's smirk just grew wider as he listened, and he spoke again, though this time with no trace of sarcasm. "Of course not, my lord."

OOC:

EDIT: Look at Ambrose's post, it's good
Wherever your operating from at the time. This RP was supposed to have 2 bad guys MAX but it didn't turn out that way.

Skingrad, you could be waiting in an Inn called "The Murky Mire" a well-defended Inn that keeps the local rioting rabble. (You could be watching the rabble riot on the street as the mercs guarding the Inn keep them out from your room.

You could be in an Estate in the Colovian west,

A bog in Elswyer,

But probably best to be in Skingrad or send some minions to mess with the goods guys. All you have is a fear that someone might mess with this pivotal attack, just fear. Not at confirmed, so just a few guys to mess stuff up. Perhaps when the good guys are walking along the road, they get attacked by them. In that case, you would control the baddies.

Whatever you want, you're the bad guy.



Ah, right :hehe:

OCC: Olny what do you mean there was supposed to be 2 bad guys. I'm still here?

Character Sheet:

Name: Jorton Groz
Nick Name: None
Age: 32
Race: Orc
six: Male

Appearance: Brutish
Misc. Appearance: Orcish Clan Tattoo on his left arm
Hight: 6' 3"
Apparel Worn Most Often: Brown shoes, White pants, Green shirt, black vest
Armor: Orcish armor w/ out the helmet
Other Apparel: None

Eye Color: Brown
Hair Style: Top Knot
Hair Color: Black

Skills: Heavy Armor, Blade, Hand to Hand, Blunt, Mercantile

Weapons: Orcish Battle Axe, Silver Long Sword, x2 Orcish War Axe
Equipment Sack: x3 Food, x3 Water
Miscellaneous: Orcish Shield

The Heroes or the Dissenters?: Good Guy
Why are you there?: Thought the adventure would be fun.
Background Information: Jorton used to live in Hammerfell, but left after he was accused of stealing some sheep from an old sheep farmer. He showed that he was a good Orc, after he saved a group of Legionnaires from being slaughtered by a group of Breton and Redguard bandits. After years of travelling through the Empire and doing good deeds for Lords and killing corrupt lords and others, he made his way to the Crotchety Coot after being given a message from a man named Amontillado who was looking for hero's.
----------------------------
Character Sheet:2

Name: William Burnock
Nick Name: Cleaver (Goes by this)
Age: 32
Race: Breton
six: Male

Appearance: Light Tan skin, missing left eye (Magical white orb takes its place), not very muscular
Misc. Appearance: Scar down his left eye
Hight: 5' 9"
Apparel Worn Most Often: Dark Robe with hood, black shoes
Armor: Leather armor (Enchanted)
Other Apparel: Necromancer Enchanted Necklace

Eye Color: Hazel
Hair Style: Long
Hair Color: Brown matted

Skills: Light Armor, Alteration, Blade, Conjuration, Security

Weapons: Silver Short Sword, Steel Daggar,
Equipment Sack: Spell book, potions, ingredients, wet stone, x4 Soul Gems, x4 Great Soul Gems, x4 Dark Soul Gems.
Miscellaneous: A dozen Armored Skeletons w/ Swords and Axe's (Mostly guard his cave house Two are body guards.)

The Heroes or the Dissenters?: Dissenters Necromancer
Why are you there?: Not there yet
Background Information: Jortun was a breton with a troubled past. His mother died when he was 12 and his father was a drunk, who died a "Mysterious" death. Jortun was taken in by his aunt Silva, who also died a "Mysterious" death. After his family had died he was alone, no home, no money, nothing. He was wandering the wilderness, when a old Necromancer took him in and showed him the ways of bringing people back. After years of learning how to bring back the dead, Jortun brought his mother and the rest of his family back to life. Even though they could'nt speak, Jortun was happy to have them around. At first, Jortun used his reviving skills for good, to bring friends dead pets or family back, but after being caught and banished from his village, he became sadistic and evil, he gradually killed a whole town making it look like Vampires had attacked. He brought them all back as his Armored Skeleton minions. Currently four years after he killed the town, the Dissenters found him and recruited him as one of them. He has been a Dissenter for the remaining years.



--- Deep inside a cave near Northern Skingrad---

William walked around in his room gathering his gear, as he thought of what he was about to partake on. The two heavily armored body guards stood at attention. The two body guards were once two great warriors, that had hunted Jortun just six months ago. Both had fallen to William's great magical ability, and to his heavily armored skeletons.

"Drutash, what kind of night are we going to have?" william said in a sadisticly to his body guard. The skeleton stood holding up his axe, showing that he approved that the night would be good. The cave smelled of death and decay, but william loved it, he layed his hand on the skeletons armor, and smiled, as he looked over at the other.

"What kind of night will we have Groz?" william said once again in a low sadistic voice. Groz raised his battle axe in approval, as jortun made his way out of his room. The others waited in a room that they were placed over night, if they were not busy guarding the hauls and entrances of his cavern. William stood before his small horde of about a dozen heavily armored skeletons, as he checked their armor and weapons. Everything seemed to be in order as William motioned for the group to follow.

As william and his horde made their way through the cave tunnels, the moonlight broke through the cavern door. The smell of fresh wild flowers disturbed william as he opened the door, he would have to do something about the smell later, but in the mean-time he had souls to capture and people to enslave.


---Crotchety Coot Inn---

Jorton sat at the table drinking a large pint of mead, as he listened to Amontillado tell of what needed to be done. It seemed simple, take-out the evil presence in the area and then move on. Seemed easy enough. Jorton looked at the rest of the new adventurer's that sat at the table with him, he thought the group that had assembled was a fairly well sized group to take on the evil that surrounded Skingrad, and he was proud to be fighting along side them.


OCC: Will add more later, Jet lag is hard on the body. :facepalm:

Name: Philip Abercrombie Crotchetson
Nick Name: "Apricot"
Age: 34
Race: Imperial
six: male

Appearance: Just by looking at Phil , one could tell that he was all brawn and no brains . His body is large but short , giving the impression of a slightly squashed tomato , and is just as ugly . His head has an almost flat-top and sit's upon his body with barely a stump of a neck to rest upon . He sport's a large underbite and has two small beady eyes that sit a bit too far away from his nose to be taken seriously , and his large ear's jut outside of his head like that of an elephant . His pudgy nose curls up like a hog's , and altogether , looks like a ugly wrecking ball .

Misc. Appearance: Phil's hair is that of the ginger variety ( complementing his usually angry pudgy red face ) and is in a crewcut style . He has great thick ginger mutton-chop sideburns that run down the side of his face too . His teeth rival that of a hippopotamus , and are great stained yellow slabs that line his gums . His fingernails are grossly unclean and bear home to all manner of deliciously harmful bacteria . His eye colour is dark brown , but given the size of his beady little eyes , they look more black .

Hight: A shocking 5'6 , meaning that when he goes all red and angry..it look's more cute then menacing

Apparel Worn Most Often: Phil is not a man of complex taste , and his ragtag clothing style makes this sadly apparent . He wears a wine-stained white cotton shirt with guar leather sewn into the elbows to prevent wear , with a plain fur vest thrown over the top ( unbuttoned most of the time ) , which is home to many flea's . His pant's are a badly tanned brown leather , coming apart at the seams , and he wears common brown leather boot's of which stink of dung .

The most unique item of his clothing is his makeshift helmet that he proudly wears , a true token of his craftsmanship . The upper part consist's of great stag horn's that have a penchant to get caught up in any doorway he walks through , whereas the lower part consist's of one half of a rusted broken bear-trap ( he wears this around his neck ) . The whole thing is held together by a odd array of wire , string , and scraps of leather , and he looks like a pudgy angry reindeer with it's face caught in a beartrap when he wears it .

Armor: No armor..just apparel

Other Apparel: He keep's a greasy stained polka-dot hankercheif in his back pocket , useful for wiping his brow...and other places . He also had a pair of brown leather gloves that go up to his elbows tucked into his pant's , he wear's 'em for dirty work . he also usually has a wine bottle attached to his chest-belt , filled with his own home brewed apricot-wine ( hence nickname )
Eye Color: Dark brown...look's more black though .
Hair Style: short wispy crew-cut with great big muttony sideburns
Hair Color: Fiery orange

Skills: Blunt , Strength , Bashin' , Choppin' , Cuttin'
Weapons: A great big ugly iron woodcutter's axe . Its chipped , rusty , and barely held together , a crude smiley face is chipped into the handle with what looked like a rusty knife .

Equipment Sack: Phil has a large black leather belt that runs diagonally from his left shoulder to his right hip . He was a few things dangling off the belt ( see misc. )

Miscellaneous: A faded green bottle labelled "Wine" In bad handwriting , accompanied by another badly drawn smiley face , this time eating an apricot . The bottle is filled with some fetid ugly orange-brown mixture of Phil's own creation , his infamous home brewed "apricot wine" that only he has the gut's to drink . Drinking it is described as like having your brain heated over a slow burning fire until it melts before pouring it out of your ear and making you drink it .

The Heroes or the Dissenters?: Dissenter's

Why are you there?: The prospect of plundering , pillaging , and burning made good sense to Phil , of whom was a simple man . And what would be better then plundering? Plundering for a cause . The Dissenter's view him as but dumb muscle .... and he is , but he is also effective in striking fear into those who oppose the organisation , and a good source of comedic relief too . He is an effective weapon of death in the right hands .

Background Information: No one know's how the thing known as Phil was born . Some say it was a boozed up hoker who had a one night stand with a rabid bear , other's say a pair of servants to a rich Skingrad nobleman found him in a barrel of graqes and then dropped him on his head as they tried to fish him out . This is most likely the true story .

Ever since he was little he drunk wine . Be it before bed , early in the morning , or when on the toilet ... Phil was a alcoholic by age 10 . This of course made him unpopular with other kid's , as he would boister into the classroom in drunken rage before flipping a desk over and falling unconcious ... and he eventually took up the job as bully to quench his addiction .

Not a smart man by any means , he took up work as a bandit when he got older , pillaging the area around Skingrad for profit and fun . This also fueled his passion for winemaking , and he genuinely believes he is a master brewmaster ... although anyone else in the world would strongly disagree . His ruthless plundering caught the attention of the Dissenter's , who brought him aboard as a strongman for the organisation .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Name Raleigh Bastion
Nickname "The Shade"
Age 35
Race Breton
six Male

Appearance Sleek and slender , Raleigh look's like a well bred and well educated man . His face is clean and shaven , his teeth are a pearly white , and his skin is as smooth as a babies behind . His cheeks are somewhat hollow and his ears ride up the side of his head and end at a slight point . His eyes are of average distance from his long sleek nose . He has large dark sacs under his eyes however , indicating tiredness .

Misc appearance Raleigh has a scar running from the inner corner of his left eye , across the bridge of his nose , and ending at the outer corner of his right eye . Seeing as the scar has run through his right eye , the colour of that eye is dilluted and faded . He wears a mask to cover this ugliness ( See apparel )

Height 6'4

Apparel worn most often Raleigh is a wealthy and well dressed man , and will settle for no less then the highest calibre of criminal mastermind attire . He wears a stylish black tri-pointed hat with white lace with white tight leather gloves to match . He sport's a fine black double-briasted silk jerkin that looks as stylish as it does deadly with golden buttons , and dark brown leather boot's that ride up to his knee's . Under his black jerkin he wears a white cotton corsair-like undershirt neatly ironed and pressed with those fluffy bit's at the cuff . He wears sleek black leather pants that hug his skin tightly .

Due to his ugly scar across his face and his strive for perfection , Raleigh wear's a black velour ballroom mask to hide his shame . He also wears a dashing black velvet cape with ride lining on the inside , and overall , looks quite like http://www.acemurdermystery.com/images/english/the-highwayman.jpg ( Just imagine black where the white is...and red lining inside the cape )

Armor None , wears the apparel listed above .

Other apparel He mockingly wears the badge of a Skingrad guard officer on his tunic . The badge is silver , neatly engraved , and details that the badge is owned by an officer of the guard posted in the Skingrad west tower .

Eye colour Raleigh's left eye is deep blue...almost indigo . His right eye however , is a more milky light blue owing to the scar that runs through that paticular eye .
Hair style He has a paticularly bad monk-like haircut If you dont know what I mean by "monk" , you can find an image http://l.yimg.com/img.movies.yahoo.com/ymv/us/img/hv/photo/movie_pix/columbia_pictures/quantum_of_solace/anatole_taubman/quantum.jpg
Hair colour Black with white highlight's...he looks like he has a dead skunk with a haircut on his head .

Skills Athletics , Agility , Precision , Speed .

Weapons Raleigh sport's a masterwork silver Katana rumoured to be of powerful Akaviri origin . The handle is curved and dotted with various cursive and elegant looking engravings . The blade itself is razor sharp and highly reflective . The weapon resembles it's master's love for luxury and excellence in every way .

Equipment sack To hold his katana , Raleigh has a black sheathe buckled to his pants . It is made of fine wood , and looks delicate .

Miscellanious A small golden box of sinus-clearing snuff that he keep's in his Jerkin pocket , and 700 septims safely tucked away in a luxurious-looking purple velvet bag with gold string tie .

Heroes or Dissenters? Dissenters

Background information : An esteemed highwayman and capable assassin , Raleigh sported a cunning tact and ruthless calculating attitude not often seen in other's who occupied his field of work . Many of whom he robbed were beguiled and amazed at his almost genius tact and charming wit , and didn't bother trying to catch him due to the fact they were som impressed .

He was viewed by the public as a dashing and witty hero , and it was almost an honour if a noble got robbed by him . These stories of course , were all lies . Raleigh may of been intelligent and cunning , but the last thing he was was charming . he murdered and stole like the rest of them , just with a flair of intelligence sprinkled over the top , and it didnt become long before the Dissenter's picked him up for his prowess , deadliness , and smart's .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will post an IC soon

Name: Tobiasz Raxleon
Nick Name: Tobi
Age: 25
Race: Nord/Imperial-Vampire
six: Male

Appearance: Tobi is fairly handsome, but not extrordinarily so. His most striking features are his eyes, but other than that, he is fairly average looking. His face is somewhat thinner, slightly longer than that of an Imperial, due to his Nordic heritage. Also, his eye brows aren't as bushy as an Imperial's.

Misc. Appearance: N/A
Height: 6'2 in
Apparel Worn Most Often: Tobi is good with Light and Heavy Armor, but travels more with leather armor, minus the helmet. He also travels of fur when he is traveling in cold weather.
Armor: Full Steel Armor when he knows he's going to be fighting.
Other Apparel: I'm lacking clothing imagination, so lets go with dark shirt and dark wide pants (from Oblivion), along with doeskin shoes.

Eye Color: gray-blue
Hair Style: medium length natural cut
Hair Color: satin blond

Skills: Blade, Block, Heavy Armor, Light Armor, Armorer, Marksman, and Healing

Weapons: Silver dagger, usually stashed and hidden for a backup. While traveling, he keeps a steel shortsword on his left hip, as well as a bow and a quiver of whatever arrows he can find strapped to his back. In combat, he uses a fine steel longsword with an iron shield, as well as a iron claymore strapped to his back. It's usually a last resort.

Equipment Sack: A messenger-syle traveling bag in which he keeps various potions, gold, etc.
Miscellaneous: An enchanted medallion that gives him a shield effect. With prolonged use, it makes him very sleepy.

The Heroes or the Dissenters?: Good-Guy
Why are you there?: Tobi is an adventurer. He likes to travel, do the classic 'stranger-saves-town-becomes-hero' thing. He thinks that they should protect the Count of Skingrad, because he has ruled for many years, and has kept Skingrad safe all that time.

Background Information: Tobi was born in a small house in Chorrol to a blacksmith and an alchemist. His father used to be a Legion soldier, but retired to raise a family. Tobi grew up in quite a normal life, and was always found helping people around town. As he grew older, the tasks grew larger until eventually he started doing little mercenary-like missions. When he turned 18, he deceided to explore the world. His mother, knowing he was going to get himself into trouble, gave him an amulet she had enchanted to help protect him. Tobi has been all over Cyrodiil, as well as Morrowind, doing little missions, or big ones, depending on what was needed. He also liked exploring old forts, caves, and Ayleid ruins, but that was more of a hobby. He recently received a letter to meet a man at the Crotchey Coot. He set off as soon as he could, eager to get into some excitment...

Pilus sat uncomfortably in the wooden chair. He shifted himself to more fit his body, but gave up realizing that this chair was never meant to be comfortable. He watched this Amontillado speak of grand schemes of some assassins that would plunge Skingrad and the surrounding West Weald into chaos. Silently scoffing at the man, he fiddled with his brass knuckles rolling them around in his hand. Too bad he would actually have to do something this time, and hunt down these so called assassins. At least it was a good pay. What am I gonna blow this heap of gold on when I'm done with this? [censored]s? Alcohol? Weapons? The possibilities are endless. And thanks to these mindless men, men like me get heaps of gold to spend willy nilly. I guess that's what they blow their heaps of gold on: grand schemes that end up with nothing but gold out of their pockets and into mine, except afterwards they still have more left to spend. Pilus thought.

Once Amontillado had finished his speech a basket full of bread was placed right in the middle of the table, alongside several pints of beer. Those were quickly taken by the interspersed people. Once the third round had come, Pilus grabbed one and a surprisingly fresh loaf of bread. Biting into the bread, he realized it must have been just baking seeing as it was still warm and doughy. Washing down the bread, he took a hearty swig of ale letting it settle in his stomach. He took another hearty gulp leaving half of the beer floating in the mug. Sitting for a moment he chugged the last half finishing off with slamming his mug down on the table with a large resounding thud. After daintily wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he yelled across the table to the waitress, "Another please!"

Name: Faldom, was an orphan abandoned by parents, so family name was never known
Nick Name: Fal
Age: 23
Race: Imperial
six: Male

Appearance: A rather average imperial, a bit more muscular and hardened than most from a life of labor, also this gave him a bit more tan of a complexion.
Misc. Appearance: Missing his pinky and ring fingers from his left hand, was bitten of by a wolf
Height: Above average
Apparel Worn Most Often: Leather boots, tan linens, bronze necklace, and a white shirt with suspenders
Armor: Mithril
Other Apparel: Wears other middle class apparel, often doesn't wear a shirt aswell.

Eye Color: Brown
Hair Style: Clean Cut
Hair Color: Dark Brown

Skills: Blade, Block, Light Armor, Marksman, Athletics, Destruction, Mysticism, Resotration

Weapons: Ebony Longsword, Shield, and Bow and Arrows
Equipment Sack: Has a bag for collecting loot, but keeps most items at home, make horse carrie most items in saddle bags.
Miscellaneous: Shack in Waterfront, a horse from Amon.

The Heroes or the Dissenters?: Hero
Why are you there?: Aspires to become great, and remembered.
Background Information: Born to a couple of beggars (what he was told at orphanage), his mother died at child birth and his father knew the best thing to do for his new son was to get him out of the life he would have, so he dorpped him off at an orphanage where at age five, he was adopted by a cruel Khajiit mage named Shra'visk who made Faldom do extreme amounts of labor all day, at fourteen Faldom felt the need to escape so he snuck into the Mages library during the nights and learned magic from studying spell tomes, after he learned magic he was able to hit the Mage with a spell, and escaped using a spell to unlock the door, after that he ran away and was on his own from that point. Once he was free he had to fend for himself, he did some odd quest to amke a living, he realized he loved it. He loved the glory of a strangers admiration, being thanks by helpless civillians, he know knew he wanted to be a hero. Faldom greatest feat, was defeating a large bandit gang and killing a powerful bandit lord by himself, this gained him some local fame and the loot that is now his armor and weapons.

OOC:
Normally you can control these NPCs but because I have nothing to do at the moment- others can call over a random waiter and ask for a drink and control him to bring it to them if they feel the need to do so.


oopse :goodjob:

IC:

The waitress nodded to Pilus.

"Right, I'll have it in a moment."

The woman returned to the backroom for a time, before emerging with his drink. She set it before him and went back to taking orders from other tables.

OOC: Sorry. I didn't actually mean for you to give me another drink. I was just making a point that he was going to get wasted.

The pudgy dwarf-like man sat at the table...crudely picking at the meal infront of him with his fork , his other hand resting his dissapointed-looking head whilst the man sat opposite him, clearly wearing a expression of distaste .

The Tavern was barely populated as the city of Skingrad had pretty much gone to hell over the course of the past few month's , but the warbling fantail's and luscious smell of well-aged wine was still very much evident . The weather was as good as ever, and if it weren't for the whole "people rioting and dying in the street" thing...it could be described as a perfect day .

The ginger-haired brute finally grumbled and shoved the plate away from him , crossing his arms like a spoilt child . "I don't like pie" he said in a sulkish-tone , looking out the window and at the street below . The Well-dressed man opposite him was clearly insulted by this gesture , and his pushed the plate back in the man's general direction .

"I brought it for you...so your going to eat it, whether you like it or not!.......besides . Its apricot, isn't that your favorite flavour?"

"No! it isn't! Not in a bloody pie anyway! meat goes into I pie methink's...so I ain't eating that...that...monstrosity! That mutation! Fruit in a pie? the cook here is a class eight through and through!"

The taller better mannered man leant back in his chair with an expression of great distaste , sipping his small glass of brandy whilst staring and the little thug with eyes as sharp as dagger's . The smaller man was obviously disturbed by the excessive amount of evil eyeing going on , and started to break out in a sweat .

"Don't look at me like that! if it means that much to ye...Ill take the damn pie home and eat it later...o.k? 'Sides , you said you had a job fer me? Of the eh..hacking and killing variety?"

"The job was getting you to eat the damn pie...you mindless brute" The man said in anger , getting up from his seat . "Why is it that you have no problem killing innocent's...but when someone gives you a bloody nutritious item of delicious food , you act like a damn oblivion gate has opened? Its good for you!....You would probably grow taller too!"

The short man instantly sprung up from his chair...his face as red as a prune and his chest puffed with anger . "An insult! Well sorry guv' ... fer not meeting your bloody high standards! I said I would take the pie with me and eat it at home! is that not good enough for you? eh?"

The tall man frowned before taking his seat . Any more pie-related argument and he would surely snap . The lack of any action whatsoever annoyed him too....he needed to think up something evil and mastermind-ish before he snapped of boredom .

"Fine....just take a seat , shut up , and do those doodle's that you like to draw" He said , his leg's crossed and his finger's twidling . "Im going to stare out this window and try and think of a way to cause some action"

Name: Wrothgar the Cautious
Age: 61
Race: Nord
Gender: male

General Appearance: strong, tall (185cm; 6'1"), muscular. Grey eyes, long blond hair. Used to be the cream of Skyrim's fighting force, but his age has taken away some of the fitness; still an able fighter. His skin is worn by the long life of living outdoors, fighting for survival. His body is full of scars, but his face is without them.

Clothing: he dresses plainly but warmly (wool, linen, the usual). No point in dressing in rags. A brown cloak with a hood to protect him from cold and rain.

Armor: uses a full Dwemer armor with shield, reconstructed and polished by his own hands.

Weapons: a great two-handed silver war axe carried on his back; steel longsword on his hip; glass dagger strapped to his leg.

Miscellaneous equipment: survival kit (the usual: food, bedroll, cooking stuff, fire kit). Also, a portable forge (obviously he doesn't carry that in his pocket; he has a pack mule to carry it around along with his other possession). I guess his pack mule could also be called equipment.

Skills (in game): heavy armor, blunt weapon, blade, hand to hand, armorer
Skills (non game): swimming, climbing, riding, hunting, other outdoor survival skills, surgical skills (battlefield surgery)

Personality: unlike most Nords, Wrothgar is somewhat of a legend among his kin since he marches into battle with his wits collected and calm. Capable of great concentration, he is not fooled easily. Like most warrior races of Tamriel, he considers dying with personal dignity and honor more important than living without them. Feeling fear will shame him, therefore he will go to great efforts to cleanse himself of that shame with even more heroic efforts. Respects equal and stronger warriors than himself, despises cowards, protects the weak (if he has a good reason). Kind to children, respectful to women. Strangely for a Nord, he dislikes strong liquor as it makes his mind clouded. He has had many lovers but has never married and fathered no children (not to his knowledge). Like most warriors, he distrusts magic and those that wield it.

Biography: born to a fierce warrior tribe in Skyrim. When he was a child, his tribe was attacked by a neighbouring tribe. He was one of the few that survived. He fled from Skyrim, came to Cyrodiil, joined the Fighters Guild. After a lifetime of service as a mercenary, he retired and bought a house in Skingrad. As unrest spread across Skingrad county, he felt it neccesary to offer his skills and experience to those that aim to maintain public order. Doesn't know much about the Dissenters except that they desire to cause trouble and he intends to stop them in whatever means necessary.

Which side and why: the Heroes, because that is the only honorable course to follow

Faldom, gulps another shot of whiskey.

"Hit me." He calls down the bar, he down his third shot.

Faldom has said seven words all night, hello, nice to meet you, and hit me. Faldom is feeling shy, but even more the fear, the fear of one thought he had; I will probably die.

His heart is racing and his palms are sweating, he knows of only one thing to calm his nerves.

"Hit me." Faldom drinks what he decides to be his last for the night.

Sheepishly he walks back over to the table of heroes.

"So whats the plan exactly?"

IC: Jitorr sat on the bar stool closest to the wall, leaning against it as he passively observed the scene. The brim of his helm cast a shadow over his eyes, as he loosely held a frothy tankard of mock-ale. While he was doubtlessly considering himself a shady, mysterious adventuring hero, his kitten-like face, immature stature, brightly-colored mis-fit armor, bogus beer, and hyperactively twitching tail gave him a comical appearance than anything else. Despite his attempt to appear impassive about the situation in the tavern, he couldn't suppress the sudden burst of excitement when he heard an old man talking about a heroic mission over at one of the large tables.

Immediately, the kitten hopped up from his bar stool, dashing over to the table as quickly as he could on two legs. "You're going to save the count?!" Jitorr exclaimed excitedly in his high-pitched voice as he reached the table. "I can help!" He didn't quite know what was going on, but if it would make him into more of a hero, he was all for tagging along. Before anyone could speak against his involvement, he began a rapid pitch of his overrated ability.

"I may be young, but I'm not a kitten anymore and I can hold my own in combat with my claws and I can shoot shurikens and lightning from my crossbow with amazing accuracy and I can move faster than any person or mount and can scout really well and I don't get very often and..." his speech became even faster and more convoluted in his eagerness, hopefully he included a phrase to counteract every objection that the party could raise against him, his self-description becoming even more fantastic and nonsensical the longer he spoke.

"So what's the plan exactly?" said the Imperial youth as he sat down next to Wulfgar.
Hitting you, perchance? thought Wulfgar but was tactful enough not to utter it aloud.

Why would a healthy boy like that want to churn around with magical powers when he owns a pair of hands to wield a sword? A mage. And a coward to sum it up. Disgusting. Did we really come down to this? Usually he didn't judge people by the first impression but this time he couldn't help himself.

"You do realize that no one is forcing you to be here, lad," he said to the sweating youth and took a sip from his own tankard, containing significantly cut wine.

His eyes would scan the place every so often, making sure there was no one up to foul play behind his back. His set of armor was still where he left it, along with his war axe and longsword. He kept his dagger where it was. You could never to careful, even with people who claim to be on the side of justice.

Especially with people who claim to be on the side of justice.

He still wasn't certain what to make of this Amontillado. The man sounded sincere and just, speaking with obvious energy, but words are and always will be wind. Wulfgar believed he caught a hint of arrogance in him and arrogance was usually a sign of overconfidence in one's own abilities.
As before, he didn't say this out loud.

Wulfgar leaned across the table and looked the man Amontillado in the eye.
"Sir, I would like to know something, if you would be so kind. I have been retired for close to a year now. Pray tell who supplied you with the information of me? How did you know that I would be interested in coming here? Surely you did not send those letters to random folk."

Outside The Murky Mire.

After seeing the recruits off, Darnmon had quickly entered the city, heading towards the Murky Mire Inn, his place of residence until the time came to attack. He had walked at a brisk pace and went all the way there without anyone disturbing him. He had passed many rioters and looters, sure, but none would dare to bother him. He simply exuded an aura of danger, and the peasants avoided him, as if they could sense the untold horrors that would occur if they were to get into his way. After all, no one wants pain inflicted on them, unless they're total idiots that is.

He now stood in front of the inn, and was about to enter when someone shouted from behind him. "Hey, you there! Give us all your belongings and we won't hurt you!"

Darnmon turned and viewed the speaker. He was a Bosmer, a truly pitiful creature who looked as if he hadn't eaten in days. In his hand was a dagger that looked as if it would crumble from age at any moment. At his side was a burly Nord, and this one seemed to be far more dangerous, as he was bulging with muscles and hefted a great warhammer. The mercenaries standing guard began to move to kill the fools, but Darnmon stopped them by holding up a hand and motioning them to return to their posts.

"Would you like to repeat that, I'm afraid I didn't quite hear you," Darnmon said, his voice so low that the Bosmer obviously had to strain to hear him.

He hesitated for a moment, as if considering whether or not it was truly worth it to antagonize the scary looking Dunmer, but he apparently gathered some hidden reserve of willpower and repeated himself, though there was now a nervous tone to his voice, and the hand that held the old dagger was shaking. That went unnoticed by him, however, the Nord was more observant and began to slowly back away, his commen sense taking hold.

"No escape for you big guy," was all Darnmon said before raising his hand and shooting the ground beneath his feet with a spell, encasing the ground he stood on in ice. As the Nord struggled to get free, the Bosmer turned and ran, now afraid for his life. But he wouldn't get away either. With a mere flick of a finger, a stone rose from the ground and went hurtling at the Bosmer's head, hitting him and knocking him to the ground.

When the pitiful creature's vision cleared, Darnmon was standing above him. "Please, please don't kill me! I'll never bother anyone again, please just spare my life. You Dunmers are all about honor right? You wouldn't kill someone begging for mercy."

Though the Bosmer was speaking, Darnmon couldn't hear, as a battle was taking place in his mind.

There's no need to kill him. He's just a poor begger who finally had to resort to violence. I was much like him, once upon a time.

But that time is gone. You're superior to him, and he disrespected you. KILL HIM!

But it would serve no purpose...

It doesn't matter. Take his life, his soul, his power, and make it your own. You can't be strong if you show mercy. You can't get revenge if you show mercy. Kill him, do it NOW!

Briefly, Darnmon's eyes changed from red, to pure black, and the Bosmer screamed in horror as he pulled his sword from it's black sheath on his back. The sword glistened in the sunlight, but as he held it, a black aura manifested around it, around him. The Bosmer continued to scream as he raised his sword and spun it around into a reverse grip, then, with both hands, plunging it straight into the Bosmer's chest. As blood pooled around his body, his skin paled and his eyes lost their color. His hair greyed, and his screams turned into short gasps. Soon, he was dead.

When Darnmon's eyes finally turned back to red, the first thing he saw was a vision of his own corpse, laying shriveled on the ground. Apparently uncaring, he turned and entered the inn as the mercenaries looked on in awe. After a while, one of them breathed one word. "Damn."

Faldom, look over to see who said that, his hand on his sword, the hand was removed when he saw the huge nord staring at him in what seemed to be some disgust. Faldom thought to himself how the nord was right, he could and should turn around and leave this behind, then he scratched the thought knowing Tamriel needed his life more than he needed it. He sat down feeling more confident.

"As I was saying, when do we ride, and what action will we take?" He ask Amontillado after his conversation with the Nord

Amontillado looked back at the large Nord.

"I have heard of many people, in many lands. I have some informants, and have heard some tales. I just happened to think a man of your stature warranted invitation to such a mighty host of Heroes. Or, perhaps my messengers thought you worthy. I gave them orders to hand them to many people. But no, I sent yours by name. I know that you are an honorable man, and what would we be without honor? We'd be no better than those we battle."

"Hearing tell of you, exactly? 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."

OOC: Way to ignore everyone else awaiting your response :stare: ...

OOC: Want to elaborate some?

Opse! You can control Amon's typical responses

IC:

Amontillado looked over at the Kajhit.

"Any whom is willing to fight for our cause is welcome. I doubt not your fighting prowess. For now, eat. You will need something to warm you if this weather persists." He waved at the window. "I will cover your tab, just keep it reasonable, would you?" Amontillado ordered a drink himself, and sent one of the waiters off to be replaced by another.

Name: Fanier
Age: 65 (appears 27)
Race: Wood Elf/High Elf mix
six: Male

Appearance: Medium length brown hair that is either let loose or tied in a messy ponytail. Pretty normal muscle definition, leaning toward the muscular side. He kinda has a thin-looking head.
Misc. appearance: Nothing unusual.
Height: 6' 1"
Apparel worn most often: Simple shirt and pants, sometimes wears leather gauntlets. When it's cold, he has a nice burgundy coat.
Armor: Though he usually doesn't wear armor, he has a mithril chestplate, greaves, and boots, and the gauntlets mentioned above.
Other apparel: Always wears his late wife's golden amulet. He is very protective of it.

Eye color: Brown
Hair style: Look back up at appearance.
Hair color: Brown.

Skills: Fanier is an expert at close quarters combat. That includes hand to hand and short blade skills. He's also fair with a bow. He can cast simple restoration and fire spells when necessary.

Weapons: Just an elven shortsword. If he's wearing his burgundy coat, he'll keep it hidden inside of it.
Equipment pack: He likes to bring some bread on long trips.

Heroes or the dissenters: Heroes
Why I'm there: He's a privateer, so he does this stuff for a living. Plus he needs the money.
Backround info: Son of a nobleman in summerset isle, left his family as he grew tired of the noble life. Traveled across Tamriel, and met a beautiful wood elf name Lathora in Cyrodiil. They traveled together, and were married in the Temple of the One. A year later, during a visit to Morrowind, Lathora came infected with Corprus, and eventually became a full fledged corprus beast. Fanier, devastated, took her amulet and left Morrowind. He became a privateer for well-paying customers, sometimes easy jobs like pest-extermination (rats), sometimes doing the dirty work for skooma dealers. Although he sometimes murdered, he never did so unless his employers told him what they did to deserve such a fate. Fanier never told anyone of his wife.


IC: Fanier hadn't spoken yet. He simply sat, quietly, listening intently to Amontillado's words. He was a strange man, that was sure. But he payed well, and Fanier needed the money. Good thing the Amontillado was paying for their drinks.

"Waitress!" he called, and the woman came over to take his order. "Bring me a glass of scotch, will you?"

"Of, course, sir," she told him. "I'll be right back with it." She turned and started to walk away.

"Wait." Fanier asked again, and the woman turned around. "Actually, bring me the bottle. It's going to be a long night. Oh, and a pie would be nice." The waitress nodded and made her way to the bar.

As Faldom discusses the plans with Amon, his fear changes into excitement and anticipation. How exciting! A chance to become a real hero! All Faldom can do is wait for the time to go by until he rides.

Faldom deciedes to take a few more shots of whiskey, convincing himself that he can definetly handle riding drunk. Eventualy Faldom really gets in to his drinking and is now completely drunk. He eyes a waitress that is all of a sudden incredibly attractive to him. He stands up and begins to make his way to her.

"*Hic* Hay preetty laydee" He calls like a drunken fool. "Why don't *hic* you get *hic* to know a rea..." Mid-sentence Faldom stumble and falls over passing out, who knows what would of happened if he didn't.