Traynu thanked meline and drank the water, it was cool and refreshing but when he swallowed he was quickly alerted just how painful his throat was, "Ooooh." He mumbled to himself, "I don't ever recall being this ill." He stated as he itched his throat, with living on the street, Tim had gathered a sort of immunity to most illnesses, it helped, especially since he didn't believe in a deity or have money for potions.

That being said, he certainly was enjoying the attention Meline was giving him, it was nice to have someone who cared about your safety and he had most certainly forgot the rather daunting nightmare. He decided not to mention anything to her incase it embarassed her so instead he asked for another glass of water.

As Francois was being escorted up the steep path, sleepily sitting on his donkey, he occasionally lazily extended one hand as he passed a bush, shrub or other plant and cast a Telekinetic spell, pulling the plant from the ground towards him.

"Hmm... Motherwort." He snapped off the part of the plant he could use and discarded the rest. He regarded the sprig he held in his hand with mild interest, passing his hand over it and chanting in an alien tongue. It glowed faint pink and he mumbled under his breath. "Contains the positive effects of Resist Poison and Invisibility. An old favorite from the Battlespire training sessions. Also has the potential to create poisons which damage the fatigue of warriors, and silence mages before they can cast an offensive spell. Isn't that right old boy?" he scratched the donkey behind the ears.

He thought back to a time in his youth when a potion made from this stuff mixed with some Alkanet had helped him guarantee a victory in a sparring match against another young battlemage. That knucklehead Trebonius had always been so predictable with his Poisonbloom spells. It's almost as if the man were as dense as his ugly bald head seemed to look. One would have thought that the scuttlehead would have swapped it up from time to time - put his Conjuration abilities to good use, or surprise an opponent with an Absorb Health spell or Blind them. But no. It was always Poison attacks, and failing that, swinging that big metal staff of his around like an enraged barbarian. A powerful battlemage, by all accounts, but none too bright or mentally flexible. Rest his soul. Francois had heard he'd been killed in a duel. No big surprise really.

It wasn't potions he was really here to make anyway. Alchemy was more of a hobby. To be sure, he was a Master at it, but it wasn't as fun as Smithing. He knew a thing or two about Katanas already, and had heard stories about the Blades Armor, based on the Samurai design from Akavir. He'd been told this word was Tsaeci for "To Serve" and that the Blades were originally the personal bodyguard of the Potentate. The man who had taught him about these weapons and armor was another Imperial, whom he had served in the Legions with. The master Smith Sirollus Saccus, runner up of the famous Armorer's Challenge. Sirrolus was a true craftsman and it had been an honor to share smithing techniques with him. According to Sirollus, the Katana design originated in Oblivion, probably with the Dremora warrior caste, and was copied by Akaviri swordsmen by folding the finest Akaviri Iron at least seven times, applying a charcoal mixture to part of the blade and dousing it. This resulted in an extremely strong cutting edge and a slight curve to the blade. The Dunmer people had been exposed to the Katana design both in the Dremora they sometimes summoned or battled against, and in the Akaviri invaders who had sometimes tried to conquor Morrowind. Steel imitations of the Katana and its shorter variations the Tanto and Wakazashi were commonplace in Morrowind, especially among the nobility and elite swordsmen. Of course these were weaker than the true Akaviri katanas and much weaker than the Ebony and Daedric variations wielded by only truely fearsome warriors, including the dark elf god Boethiah and his legendary Goldbrand. Just the thought of that sword sent shivers up Francois' spine...to have the chance to study the enchantments and construction of such an artifact would be most excellent. If only... he was too old to quest for artifacts. He'd have to settle for the swords waiting for him at Cloud Ruler Temple.

He was aware the others were probably taking note of his silence and his frumpled brow as he thought about all these things deeply. He knew it would take some time to gain their trust. He was prepared for this. These were tumultuous times in the Empire after all. He would have to do his very best to provide good services and be a friend to those he encountered. But the first goal on his mind was to get some ever loving sleep, after meeting the leader of the Blades of course.

Odeen quietly nodded as Karst spoke in her slurred, drunken voice. "Alright...I'll walk you to one of the rooms." He promised, and slowly began to walk her back to where he had just come out of. The alchemist was afraid that he'd let her fall or that she would fall if she walked herself. It was a good thing that the walk to the room was but a small one, as he was just walking out of it when Karst bumped into him. Passing the table he had been using for a surface to use for his alchemical practices, he led Karst to the bed against the wall. The bed appeared to warm, with a thick blanket covering the mattress. It was still untouched by Odeen. "I'll pull the cover for you." He said to her, dropping his bag on the floor to peel the cover off the bed diagonally, though not pulling the cover off completely. "A-alright...here you go. I suggest you get right to bed. But if you need anything, I'll be up for some time before I go to bed. Not too long, but...I have a feeling I need to make one more potion before bed. I'll find another room to sleep in when I get finished. Until then, I'll be sitting at that desk."

Odeen picked up the bag he let drop to the ground, and carried it over next to the desk he pointed out to Karst just a mere second ago. Then he sat down, though not without glancing at Karst, just in case she looked like she needed something.

He merely nodded to Xerxes, then looked around the room, seeing that Mel and Gregory had left. Mel, the Elf women, seemed incredibly suspicious to Teegus. All that Armor, and a Deadric weapon seemed to raise a few questions.
And Gregory, the Breton Mage. Where did that fellow run off to? Something about researching something, Teegus wasn't paying attention to what he said.

Teegus looked back at Xerxes, with an unsure look. ''Sooo...'' He began. ''What now?''



Xerxes shrugged his broad shoulders slightly, "How about some food?" he asked in his usual deep yet soft voice, The thought of mahogany roasted pheasant filling his head. Xerxes looked to the young Argonian, awaiting a reply. Not wanting to offer his guard, then rush off for food. He made his way to one of the plain oak chairand took a seat. The wood groaned in surprise of his sudden wait. Steeling himself, in case it gave way he set the heavy Glaive down beside him. "Or we could wait for Mel and the Breton to return." Xerxes hoped Teegus didn't want to do that, He felt enegetic, like a kitten and didnt want to be confined in such a small room for so long.


Allso thanks for the greeting jarod ^.^

ooc: I love how Tim calls her 'Meline.' It's.. endearing.

ic: Melanarde watched his reaction to the water and smirked slightly in a knowing way. She knew very well the suffering he was going through right now. Before Tim looked back at her, though, the smirk was gone. The Altmer didn't want her newly acquired friend to think she was enjoying watching him suffer. In fact, in an odd way, it hurt her to see him in pain. Like a mother for her child, she couldn't help but want to put a stop to his misery as soon as she could.

Sitting there as he drank and rubbed his throat, Mel adjusted her skirt a little, smoothing wrinkles and checking for loose threads. When Tim's voice came from beside her again, she looked back to the young man. Taking the glass from him, she gave him a reassuring smile and refilled it from the pitcher on the bedside table. "Here you go, dear." She said softly, handing it back. As the glass left her hand, Mel looked him over and wondered at what force within her was making her want to do everything she possibly could for this boy.

I've seen both orphans and homeless people before and I've always tried to help where I could, but.. Melanarde tilted her head immeasurably as she regarded Tim, ..none of them ever evoked this from me. Maybe this is my way of coping with the fact that I'm, essentially, infertile. I've never really wanted to be a mother but.. before I enchanted myself, the option was there. Now, though..

She sighed silently, the action a mere flicker behind the red of her eyes as she thought of the time that Janus had asked her if she had ever considered having children. At that, her mind turned to her relationship with the immortal man, and it forced a pang of guilt through her. No matter how she looked at it, she couldn't quite justify to herself the way she used the man's affections for her to her advantage. As her eyes refocused on the world around her, Mel looked at Tim, the feeling of happiness that looking at him brought her chasing away the feelings of guilt.

All I can do is just try to do what's right from here on out. Starting with Tim.

"Anything else I can get you, sweetie?" Melanarde inquired in her soft, elven voice. Were Tim an Altmer, someone might mistake him for her child from the way she was acting towards him.
________
Karst allowed herself to be taken into Odeen's room and watched as he pulled the covers back for her to climb in under. She regarded the comfy looking bed a moment, then tossed her backpack down by the foot of it with a dull clink from the sack of gold contained inside, pulled off her quiver and dropped it gracelessly on top of the pack. Sitting (though it was in reality more of a falling action) down on the bed, Karst began attempting to remove her boots. She tugged at the metal-and-leather fastening on one for a moment, grunting in frustration when she couldn't seem to make the straps cooperate with her. Finally, she got the boot off, repeated the process of trial and error and annoyance with the other piece of footwear and tossed it on the floor by the other.

From her point of view, the floor seemed to be spinning a little, which made her feel nauseous, so she focused on her bare feet instead, wiggling her clawed toes and snickering at them. After a minute or so of that, Karst decided that maybe sleep might be good for her. Yanking the string loose on her back that held her shirt cinched up, she pulled the garment off over her head, tossed it on the boots and clambered into bed. Pulling the blankets over herself, she snuggled herself in, got comfortable and closed her eyes.
_______
EDIT/ooc: Zant needs love, too, don't 'e?

ic: In pitch black of the currently abandoned armory was the unarmored and half undressed figure of Zan'Tarre. Under the table his gear and shirt lay in a pile while the Khajiit himself sat upon the table above, legs crossed and hands on his knees, claws partly digging into the cloth of his pants. The crystalline eyes were closed and he sat straight up and stock still, his back pressed against the cool stones of the armory's back most wall. Over the past hour and a half, he had sat here, immobile, calming his mind and body through a rough form of meditation, a combination of the mental honing techniques that remained in his mind from the attempt his mother had made at unlocking any psychic potential he might have had and of the relaxation tips Khaseena had given him when he'd been stressed. There was a peace in emptying his mind that he could not achieve from recreation or relaxation of any other flavor, a sort of serene feeling of nothingness and, in some cases, weightlessness. Of course, the latter was just a trick of the mind, but it was relaxing nonetheless.

But the time for that was over, and the time for sleep was drawing near. Reluctantly, Zant's eyes flicked open and he slid off the table gently. The Khajiit put on his shirt and boots and grabbed an empty sack from the room to carry the rest in. He wouldn't need his arms and armor until the next day, so there was no point to re-equipping them. Mind still partly at rest, he walked automatically towards his and Iris's room. The partial standby of mind ended, however, when he stepped into the main hall and startled awake at what he saw. Still armored, save for the helmet, Veyar was going through some kind of swordplay routine, moving rather gracefully for someone encased in bonemold. Leaning against the wall, he watched in silence as the Armiger appeared to fight with imaginary foes. When the whirlwind ceased, a smirk tugged at his mouth. As much as he resented Veyar for the way he had hurt his sister, he knew the man would die for her. And after seeing this display, he suddenly felt glad that Karst had the Dunmer as her guardian.

So, now, there was the part of him that wanted to lift the man up by his neck and strangle him for the pain he had cause, and the part that was glad he was there to protect the life of the one he had hurt. Zant sighed. So much for mediation making things clearer.. He chuckled in his mind. He wanted to talk to Veyar, but didn't want to startle him in case his mind was still in combat mode. After a second of thought, he settled for something simple. From his spot against the wall by the doors, he clapped softly and smiled.

"I'm damned glad you're on our side." He remarked in dry humor, though his expression turned just slightly more serious after the words left his mouth. "Where's Karst, though? I thought she was with-- Nevermind."

Shaking his head as the scent of alcohol hit his nostrils, he heaved a disappointed sigh. "I hope she didn't hurt herself on her way to bed." Zant commented, then rolled his eyes a little before turning his gaze back to the Armiger. "Well.. Hm. I was wondering if I might have a word with you, Veyar. There's.. a few things I wanted to ask you about." He said very plainly, no hint of malice in the words. The last thing he wanted to do was make an enemy of his sister's lover.. or whatever he was to her now, but he did want to sort a few things out. And, mostly, he wanted Veyar to understand, in the most gentle way one could put such a thing, that if he hurt Karst again they were going to have problems.

Tim shook his head, "I'm alright thanks," he stated as he went to stand up, his head was still quite giddy, "I might have another one of those baths, they're so good." He added, his face was full of pleasure at the mear thought of a warm, cosy bath. "And after that, do you need help with anything? I don't really do much in my days so I'm free to help you with whatever." Tim offered as he stood up and walked towards the bath, he wandered for a moment how water came to the bath, but quickly ignored the thought because he doubted he'd ever figure it out.

ooc: Lol, Tim's got a mom. ^^

ooc: Hey folks, i'm going to be away until friday due to the gf coming over. So uhh, Aula, if you wanna RP tim, go right ahead, i'd rather you didn't but if you need to...

ooc: I'm still around but nothing is happening regarding my character at the moment. Just wanted to report that I am still keeping up with this.

Is the name based on, by any chance, the Nightwish album of the same name?

Seems like we're all busy with our lives. And Im also feeling very lazy. Good but lazy. Got an imaginary girlfriend so that's why. I'll make a post during the weekend if I can. My mindset is too different from before.

Dont lose your hope

OOC: I dont think "The End of an Era" is based off of the Nightwish DVD/CD tour finale. However, every time i see the title for this, it reminds me of Nightwish.

OOC: I realize I haven't posted for a few days, and will not for a few more, but I am still here! I recently bought parts for a new PC and assembled it, and am now in the process of updating Windows, installing and updating virus protection and all the other essential stuff you need on a PC, in addition to transferring files from my old hard drive to the new one. It may be a few days before I post again as I work on getting everything running smoothly inbetween work (as I saved about $500 by buying the parts individually and assembling/installing myself rather than buying it from a custom-build site).

ooc: Where the hell have you all gone? And let's cut down on the OOC or one of the mods will probably close the thread.

Because there's no one posting;

ic:

The 19 year old looked up and saw the mudcrab, for a second, both creatures stared blankly at each other, both thinking the same thing, How the hell did he get here? But the 19 year old had other things to do rather then discuss the mud crab's day, he looked up and scuttled to his feet but was too late, an arrow hit him hard in the back, blood squirted out and the man was thrown to the floor with such force that it seemed Nirn fell back slightly.

The Mudcrab stepped back slowly as it watched a black clad mercenary looking man step out. The mercenary wrapped a cape around him and shivered, he threw the bow to the ground, inches away from the mud crab who scuttled back in fear of being squashed.

The caped figure knelt besides the now writhing 19 year old. The mercenary sighed and sat down lighting a cigarette, "It's been a long day kid, settle down." He grumbled.

(sorry again guys, got maths tomorrow and today I had the best hour and a half of my life. I came to realize one thing which I have to share with you all. I LOVE YOU ALL!!!)

Adeth nodded to Iris as she told her instructions and then retreated to Viuven and the old man. Before saying a thing, he helped Paulus position the body of the Mythic Dawn spy on Francois's horse. Adeth nodded to the three of them, gaining more and more confidence by the minute. After all that was done he looked back to Iris who was heading back to Cloud Ruler. 'So me and Viuven will go to Bruma, talk to Captain Burd but then what?' He asked her a bit confused.

For some reason Adeth felt good about himself. And without noticing he kept checking Selene's lockpick case which hung next to his, the case feeling warm to the touch and oddly calling for him. When ever he touched the case sadness crossed his face for only a second. Somehow he knew he would have to use it but did he dare? Would it offend her memory?

(bad post, i havent posted with this adeth in a while.)

The old Breton, Francois, patiently remounted his donkey and waited to see what would happen next. He could sense that he had entered the foray at a hectic time, when many things were presumably going on at once. He tried to focus on his primary objective, which seemed to be to meet the leader of the Blades, and to get a chance to work with Akaviri weapons and armor. He was sure he would be able to study and improve upon the design somewhat, which might be beneficial to the Blades in whatever battles lie ahead.


ooc: Filler post..just wanting to announce that yes, I am still here.

William was halfway through his fifth tankard of ale. Somehow, everything got better when you had a bit to drink. And the promises of his mood getting even better were there, lurking behind every new tankard. Luckily enough, William had the uttermost self control when drinking alcohol, so he didn't fear making a complete ass out of himself.

"I am really a king, really." William mentioned to the man to his left, who laughed and suggested they'd arm wrestle about it. Since this seemed perfectly natural and made perfect sense to William, he cleared the table with an elegant arm motion, and started his battle with the other man.

He lost a few times, and won a few times aswell, and decided he was well pleased with his part in the battle. William dived into yet another tankard, and thought of how horribly offending it would be to Selene's memory should someone use her lockpick case.

OOC: I'll come up with a post eventually. Finals and move out; busy weeks ahead and End of an Era is getting little inspiration for me right now. :\

ooc: Sorry for adding to the occ posts' but, I won't be able to post as much as before. I'm in the process of moving, and so I'll be busy packing things up. Then when I finally move in, I might be internet-less for a ling time. Possibly a month or two...

OOC: Holy Hell. Grandfather died and we may have to sell the house and cars, etc. And move. What's with everyone moving?! O.o

IC: Odeen had nothing to do past mixing more potions with his range of alchemical tools, which was usually enough for him to do. The Argonian almost always found peace within his alchemical and magical studies, but this time, he felt tense and restless. He had been mixing potions for a while before he bumped into Karst, and all of a sudden he found himself going at it again, mixing another restorative potion. A couple times he had messed up and wasted some ingredients due to something that felt like a severe lack of sleep. The alchemist felt dizzy, restless, achy, and even a little bit ill. P-perhaps I should just finish up with this last mixture...I can't just stop now. Then maybe I could just go to the neighboring room and have a little rest myself... He thought, reminding himself that Karst was in this room's bed.

Deciding that sleep would be an inevitable necessity, he quickly began to finish up his current concoction. Soon enough, Odeen would finally get some much needed rest.

OOC: Lollies...he even stutters in this thoughts.

OCC: RP'ing comeback #>9000

Name: Adaren Furyen
Gender: Male
Race: Dunmer
Age: 22

Height: 5' 11"
Eye Color: Red
Hair Style: Needs a haircut.
Skin Color: Light grey

Class: Adventurer (Haha, right.)
Class Focus: Combat

Major Skills: Hand to Hand, Blade, Athletics, Sneak, Acrobatics, Security, Blunt

General Appearance: Adaren's grey skin is unusually pale (possibly hinting at his Breton heritage) and stands in stark contrast to his piercing red eyes and jet black hair. This gives him a somewhat gloomy look, despite the fact that he's usually a fairly cheerful guy. That aside, he doesn't exactly look bad, possessing distinctly elven facial features, while his Human blood is most apparent in his broad shoulders, and somewhat muscular build (we are talking about a Breton here, so not overly so).
Tattoos/Scars: He'll manage.
Apparel Worn Most Often: Grey greatcoat, black silk shirt, baggy leather pants, tall boots.
Apparel worn least often: Black leather armour (similar to a Dark Brotherhood uniform, only less tight), hood.
Weapons: A thin, long steel dagger. Silver Shortsword. Ebony (as in the WOOD) walking stick, broken.

Spells: Lover's Kiss (10 sec paralysis, can only be used once a day)

Mental Description: Restless, reckless, jobless, and possibly insane. A joy to be around.

Brief History: A pretty uneventful chap, really. Like 99% of the population of Tamriel, his occupation fits neatly into the Bounty Hunter/Traveller/Adventurer/Mercenary category. His parents were people of noble breed, but fell victim to the whole taboo of having kids with people who's skin was PURPLE. And, as such, Adaren grew up with some distant Dunmer relatives in Vvardenfell. As his foster father was off mining in Solstheim more often than not, Adaren didn't really have much of a father figure to keep him in line.

After a short stint of accounting, Adaren has now decided that the best way to make money is to hit things with other things, and has relocated to Bruma, as the chances of finding a job in Morrowind have diminished somewhat, now that magical Daedric Tardises have started popping up everywhere, and the Imperial Army has started de-privatizing the whole Morrowind monster-bashing industry. Another reason is that work in Cyrodiil is generally easier, due to Morrowind's lack of level scaling.

Adeth's char: Is a [censored].

Adaren chuckled, as he saw two reasonably intoxicated men arm wrestle on what he could only imagine was a matter of great importance to both of them. As Adaren had only just recently lost his chair next to a mildly enticing Breton maid to a Nord with a build that somewhat resembled that of a bear, he thought it perfectly acceptable of him to sit with these two upstanding gentlemen instead.

"Good evening, gentlemen." he said, as he navigated his burnt-out husk in the general direction of the table. "Could anyone here be so kind as to explain the power structure of this place? That bastard took my seat, and I'm wondering if I am therefore allowed to go [censored] him up. You know... Twas a good seat."

He sat down for a brief moment, before remembering something. "Oh, my trusty tankard... How could I forget thee..." he said, in a poetic fashion, as he got up, and walked over to his former seat of residence, now occupied by said bear. "'Scuse me..." he muttered, as he reached for it. The feeling of cold steel on his shaking hand could only be said to have an encouraging effect on the young Dunmer, and as he turned around to walk back to his place amongst equally sober men, he summoned the little magicka he had, patting his offender on the back.
As the Nord's unshaved face connected with his plate of mutton and cheese, Adaren sat back down.

"Now... Where were we?"

William watched with suspicion as the Dunmer sat down with them. After a while, when his very narrow view had noticed the man's own tankard, he reckoned the dunmer wouldn't try and steal his, he settled down. "'fraid I have to disappoint you there, this nice nord," he nodded towards the man sitting opposite to himself, "robbed me of my royal title as king, so I can't help you with your seat." William uttered. He thought for quite a while and decided he should help the man no matter.

"Hear, I've devised you a cunning plan. First, you get a guard in here. Then you go over to the nord, and then vomit all over him. He'll then try and rip you apart, which he'd manage had it not been for the aforementioned guard. He'll then get thrown into jail, and you'll get your chair. Unless the constable throws you into jail with the man..." he said, proud of his master plan.

"but before you go get yourself ripped apart, how bout you do me a favour, as reward for the plan... I once met this redguard, named Samuel, really nice man, but I was wondering if you won't repeat something he said, cause you've got quite the same voice. Say 'It's the one that says bad [censored]', will you?"

Adaren smiled, as he realised that a guard was already in the tavern, and that the Nord would most likely try to tear him apart as soon as he woke up... Which would be in about... 4 seconds. He let out a loud chuckle at the Breton's request, and put a hand in his pocket, pulling out a black leather wallet that did, in fact, say "Bad [censored]". "It's that one." he said, laughing. "Oh, old Samuel. Last time I heard from him he was tied down with some Argonians on a boat somewhere. Nasty business."

The young Dunmer sighed slightly, "Your plan might work, actually. I won't even have to vomit on him, by the looks of it." he remarked, as the Nord was finally coming to his senses. Disoriented, of course, but probably pissed as hell. Paralysis does that to people sometimes. "Anyways, gentlemen. It has been nice seeing you. I am afraid I must leave thee, for I have business to attend to."

Swallowing hard, he rose from his seat, and walked over towards the now-vacant, contested seat. "Now, m'lady, what were we discussing?" he said, turning his attention to the pretty, if not necessarily very intelligent, lady by his side. Due to Adaren being in his usual state (drunk, that is. Silly) his field of vision encompassed an all too wide an area to notice the chair being swung like some makeshift blunt...thing towards his head.

William grinned widely at the wallet the dunmer pulled up, before deciding to have another sip of ale. As William wasn't very observant in his current condition, he didn't notice much until he heard somewhat of a crack... Like if someone were to pick up a chair, and then swing it into the head of say... A dunmer, letting it crack at the impact of the skull. His body's wish to vomit was suddenly quenched and a new thought rose in his head.

"BARFIGHT!" he yelled, before jumping up, falling on the floor due to lousy balance, getting up again and picking up the chair he'd been sitting on. He was much to drunk to even dream of getting his sword out of his sheath.

"Can't we talk about this?!" Adares yelled through a haze of dizziness and drunkenness. "Surely we can both compromise..." he said, preparing for another blow from an obviously enraged Nord. To his surprise, the strike never came. The Nord's attention had been directed away from him. Somebody had called the magic word!

As is custom in all barfights, the whole tavern soon started joining in, punching each other randomly. Much to each other's dismay, I may add. And as such a vital place for the community quickly dissolved into a heap of blood, violence and naughty words like "N'wah!", Adaren saw his moment. He got on his legs quickly, and reached for the nearest possible blunt object. His grasp quickly found a nearby Bosmer, and swung it towards his attacker. The crack, as two wooden objects collided, was satisfying, to say the least. The only thing missing now was a truly epic soundtrack to the truly epic event that was taking place.