Some Historical Backstory



With Martin Septim dead and the Elder Council in a state of turmoil , the aftermath of the oblivion crisis was as bad as the war itself . The whole of Tamriel split into several factions , all with their own ideas and beliefs of what the future should be like and how it should be led . Rebellion , espionage , and murder plagued the lands .

Out of all these Factions however , only two held any real influence within the land . The "United Council" , led by the remnants of Cyrodiils political infrastructure , believed a new emperor should be crowned and things resume as they did once before . However , the simply named "Republic" strongly believed that a emperor-less land would not only benefit everyone , but would prove to be the first steps in eliminating any higher power whatsoever , and resulting in a classless Tamriel where everyone worked equally and everyone had common ownership of all means of production and property in general .

This meant that there would not only be no emperor , but the Mane would hold no more power over Elsweyr , the indigenous houses of Morrowind would be utterly removed from the grand scheme of all things , and all leading powers within Summerset isles , High Rock , Orsinium , Skyrim , and all over provinces within Tamriel would be dismantled .

However , the Republic was becoming the very thing it tried to rid the land of , a totalitarian power that was crushing anything who opposed in pursuit of its one ambitious dream . Lands were divided . Black Marsh , Skyrim , Orsinium and Elsweyr Allying themselves with "The Republic" , and High Rock , Cyrodiil , Morrowind , and the Summerset Isles joining "The United Council" . Valenwood and Hammerfall have avoided the conflict altogether .

Anticipating an Attack from the South-East from Black Marsh , The Cyrodillic United Council has a plan : Hit them before they hit us . Cyrodiil invaded Black Marsh from the South-East, and in doing so triggered a major war that would be written down in the annals of history for years to come . What was once a mere aggravated disagreement between two opposing powers had now turned into an all out battle for supremacy .

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The Roleplay



Black Marsh has been invaded by Cyrodillic forces in an attempt to abolish their totalitarian ideals and turn the province into that which supports the United Council . Utilising the finest in Magicks combined with ancient Dwemer designs , the United Council has managed to equip their fighting force with the highest calibre of military equipment .

The many military units boast a impressive arsenal of ordinance , including Dwemer Satchel Packs and Magicka generators . Airships fly over the smoldering Marsh to drop off United Council soldiers into the thick of battle , powered by a combination a steam and crafty levitation magick .

What the U.C doesn't know however , is that this is an unwinnable battle . Black Marsh is amongst the most hostile provinces of Tamriel . Ground Soldiers are decimated by hostile marshland . The weather is terrible 24-7 , the ground is hard to move on . Flesh Flies swarm over entire regiments and strip the skin from their faces like airborn piranahs . Hulking black Naga ravage groups of legionnares with their razor sharp fangs . And to top it all off....most of the local plantlife is unedible and without medicine , disease is spreading fast .

This is not only a physical battle , but a psychological one . The Marshland has a demonic effect on the men , rotting their minds and driving many troops to commit suicide . It seems hopeless , the United Council has no real military tactic other then to send endless amounts of squads into the thick of all the death and disease and pray for a lucky break .

You are a member of such a squadron . Nicknamed "The Fodder Lads" , your the first into the battle , and the last out . A deadly case of "testing the water" before the real ordinance moves in , you are expendable and very much killable . You are fighting an unwinnable battle , but one you must do for the well-being of all Tamriel .

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RULES

* No ubering . It is true that technology has advanced somewhat since the war , but this doesnt mean there are rocket launchers or gatling lazer's . The RP still has by all means a medievil-fantasy theme , so dont expect to be able to wear power armor . Wear what is required in accordance to your rank ( more on this later )

*My word is law , if the argonians decide to bombard the squadron with fluffy ( yet rabid ) teddybear's , then it will be so .

*Only 10 people signing up please . I want to keep things limited within the squad to make sure the RP doesnt grind to a halt . It also means I can keep Tabs on everyone easier ( rather then having to monitor whos allied with who and where they are fighting >.< ) After I accept 10 character sheets , this ones in lockdown for all new entrants , sorry .

*No flaming , spamming , ectcetera

*Romance is allowed

*Post all sheet's to me . If I do not accept your sheet , please do not take it personally! Its just with player positions being so limited and whatnot , I want some RP'ers who have had their fair share of being in RP's Ill only refuse sheets that are poorly spelled and without good grammar , I have a 6th sense with this sorta thing .

*You will be killed.....heck , expect it . But stay on your toes and you'll be fine .

*Keep spelling and grammar to the best of your ability .

*Use the character sheet provided .

*Any other commonly known stuff I might of missed

*Have a blast!

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RANKS

A NOTE ON RANKS I will see to it that your character is promoted ranks as the RP progresses and I see you participating . As ranks progress however , it will be harder to attain them . This is to guarantee that when you make a high rank , its a really big deal :hehe: . Also , because im somewhat lazy , those who post up their sheets earliest will get the higher-end of the ranks . Those who are the 4th , 5th ,6th , and 7th will be standard troops . The 7th , 8th , and 9th people to post up their sheets are privates .


CAPTAIN ( me! ) = Allowed gear limited to Dwarven/Mithril . Carries a elven longsword , telescope , and standard issue dark green cloak and filtration mask

LIEUTENANT = Gear limited to Dwarven/Mithril . Carries any sword limited to elven , map , and standard issue dark green claok and filtration mask ~ position taken by Lt. Zared ( Sibera )

SERGEANT = Gear limited to Dwarven/Mithril . Carries any sword limited to Silver , and standard issue dark green cloak and filtration mask ~ Position taken by Sgt. Fara ( Manu )

CORPORAL = Gear limited to Steel/Chainmail . Carries any sword limited to Steel , and a standard issue dark green cloak and filtration mask
~ Position taken by Cpl. Fanier ( Forrestgump )
~ Position taken by Cpl. Matt ( Fubb )
~ Position taken by Cpl. Aravey ( Aravey Serayn )
~ Position taken by Cpl. Velandris ( Sparda67 )

PRIVATE = Gear limited to Iron/Leather . Carries any sword limited to Iron , and a standard issue dark green cloak and filtration mask
~ Position taken by Pvt. Shaw ( Swift_Blade )
~ Position taken by Pvt. Greggory ( Taylor the..um gimme a sec )

Remember folks , these are just guidelines as to what that specific rank SHOULD be able to carry . This doesnt mean that your character HAS to wear dwarven armor or use a iron longsword .... the quality of your apparel just need's to be equivalent to that sort of general quality , if you get my meaning . Theres still an element of customability , I just dont want privates weilding swords as good as elven ones .

Also , whats with the Green cloak and Filtration mask you ask? Well , the United Council see's to it that every trooper is issued a standard dark green cloak for camoflauge reasons and to keep that beastly rain at bay , and a charcoal filtration mask to keep those nasty and lethal somnalius frond spores and swamp gasses from killing you You dont have to use them if it doesn't fit your characters styles however .

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MY CHARACTER ( and the sheet you need to use! )

Name : Edward Prescott
Age : 40
Race: Breton
six : Male
Rank : ( I will give this to you when you first PM me your sheets ) Captain

General Appearance : Gruff , Chiselled . Edward looks like he's had a few knocks around the block several times in his life . He has high resting cheekbones and beady little grey eyes , along with flat , medium sized ears and a big block of a chin , covered in a generous hefty coat of manly stubble . His skin is cracked and shows sign of aging , and he has a small scar running down the side of his left eye no longer then a toothpick .

He is bald , save for some tufts of greying charcoal-coloured hair resting ontop of each ear , and he has great thick sideburns running down his face and curling into a thick moustauche . He looks somewhat reminiscent of a crimean war-era brigadair , mutton chops and all .

Mental profile : Just doing what he has to do . Edward at first impression may seem emotionless , but really he's usually just focusing on something really hard . Outside of battle he's a generous and kind man , one you could tell your horrific experiences within the war to , and expect reassuring and condoling advice in return . The stereotypical Captain who looks after his men more then himself , hes proud of his small band , no matter how expendable they may be .

Armor : Prescott wears a standard captain-issue Dwarven Cuirass and gauntlets . However , on the side of this Cuirass on the upper left briastplate are the words crudely pianted "Fodder Lad and Proud" in splotchy red paint . He also wears Leather pants and black leather boots that go up to his knee's . He doesn't favor wearing a helmet or metal plating on his legs as he finds they hinder vision and speed respectively . The overall look of his armor is rusted , and caked in marsh mud .

Clothing : ( anything your character wears that isnt a big hefty chunk of metal ) . Prescott wears the standard issue green cloak on his over his armor , although he keeps the hood peeled back . The cloak is , as usual , caked in mud and somewhat tattered . Underneath his dwarven armor he wears a plain beige cotton shirt , and he keeps his green leather rebreather tied around his neck on a brown leather strap .

Weapon : A big , hefty Dwarven Axe . Nothing really special about it .

Miscellany : His bronze telescope , issued to all squad-captains within the United Council military force .

Bio : Born in a military family with a long list of service to the Legion , his future seemed pretty much set in stone when he would have to pick to fight with the United Council and make his parents proud when the conflict broke out . He has seen his fair share of combat , but nothing as treacherous and hostile as the war he is fighting now , and he knows this . He knows it is a waste of men and time , and that the United Council will most likely lose , but that wont stop him from fighting for his country , and for his squad .

Whew! thats quite a block of text isnt it? I will post up an IC to "set the scene" soon . Remember , gets those sheets in folks

OOC : Okay , opening scene as it were..... We all start on a troop airship

IC :

There was an unearthly humming sound as the single , nimble airship traversed it's way through the bleak , blackened and cloudy sky like a tiny , buzzing bee . It was a small craft , and there were many like it , holding a maximum of 15 men and powered by a small steam generator at the back . A talented "Pilot" stood at the back of the contraption , manipulating speed , altitude , and direction with his levitation magic .

Prescott looked below him with a expression of disdain . It had been pissing down with rain for weeks now and it didn't seem to be clearing up any time soon . Below him he could see a vast expanse of marshland and boggy swamps , and the knowledge of what lurked within those marshes came as no reassurance whatsoever . Flesh flies , Naga , and disease to name a few . There were many more dangers , more then he would of liked .

He looked back at his band of men . His little squadron of " Fodder Lads" as other squads had nicknamed them . Surely the last few day's of travel and the time spent in camp must of bored the heck out of them , but he knew they weren't exactly looking forward to the action either . He hardly even knew them that well either , as he had just been posted into the squad mere days ago , and this worried him somewhat as he always saw it his priority to make his men trust him . Any soldier has to trust their captain , especially when their lives are in his hands .

"We'll be landing cool in twenty-five minutes , you big juicy sacks of tender flesh-fly meat!" The Altmer mage-pilot yelled over the engine , his hands still crackling with powerful levitation magic and a big beaming smile on his goggled , rainsoaked face . The Airship begain to tilt down and almost plummet towards the marshland , pulling back up right over the tree balcony .

Prescott looked back and him and nodded , ignoring the insult . His mind was focused on the mission . A scouting mission as it were .... to establish a camp within the marsh and relay enemy patrols and locations back to HQ .

"Always first in...." He thought in his head as the rain beated mercilessly down on him and his squad . "Better get this one over and done with. "

Name : Zared
Age : 26
Race: Cathay-raht Khajiit
six : Male
Rank : Lieutenant

General Appearance: Zared's fur is midnight black like a panther, holding a velvety shine and a softness one wouldn't find anywhere else showing much care goes into it. His eyes are a deep emerald. His body build is muscular, sculpted with years of training to build it up to as it is today. He stands approximately six foot five inches tall. He has several tattoos on his back and arms that carry Ta'agra Runes on them depicting his status in Elsweyr.

Mental profile: Zared is a trained soldier, combat medic and scout. As such his mind is fast thinking, able to make decisions in only a moment of thought. He has seen war before and holds a fair amount of experience with it. Funny, playful and always looking at the brighter side of things no matter how sad it actually is. Zared holds his emotions however such as sadness or anger beneath the surface and it's very rare to see him showing these emotions.

Armor: The updated equivalent of shrouded armour, light, keeping his ability to move fast without hampering his ability to fight or sink in water.
Clothing: Black cloth arm wraps, dark green cloak.
Weapon: An Elven/Khajiiti crafted sword made with a steel core and silver plating. A fast, elegent weapon that's as deadly as its user strapped to his back.. Silver longbow and a quiver of arrows, six throwing daggers holstered on his right thigh.

Miscellany: Mortar, pestle, first aid kit (bandages, Splints, Styptic, Disinfectant, Alchemical book ect). Diary.

Bio: Born in Elsweyr as one of the only legitimate sons to the Mane, Zared was reared up in a fairly excellent fashion. Well fed, well taught and trained. However, when his father had decided to side with The "Republic" he took an extreme dislike to it and left when he was able to finding that the mane had broken one of the most sacred of all things. The Riddle'Thar. Joining the Cyrodillian Legion at the age of 20 hiding his background to the officers, Zared seeks to rise up in rank and eventually hit general or a similar equivalent and lead/convince the legion superiors to help him take back his homeland and re-instate the true power of Riddle'Thar and Elsweyrs' oldest traditions of course there would be a few more things to his agenda that he keeps a little closer to himself.

One of his fears is that if or when the legion find out of his status, being one of the only remaining sons of the Mane he would be used as a bargaining chip where his life means little in that event.


ic: Zared sat in the back, staring out into space as they flew through the air over black marsh. It stank worse than a horses backside. He counted out what he had in his pack, all his medicines, sutures and other medicinal items. The new captain he hadnt spoken to much, which was either fortunate or not. He had spent most of his time in the camp with his closest friend and thats as far as he had been really doing. He got up slowly as they neared landing and walked over to the captain.

So... We're expected to die, the question is just in what crazy way? Sounds like a TES version of Paranoia...

Name: Fara
Nickname:
Age: 35 (appears in her early 20s)
Race: bosmer
Gender: female
Birthsign: the thief
Ranks : sergeant

Focus: stealth
Class: huntress.
Skills: sneak, light armor, marksman, acrobatics
minor skills : survival, armorer, blades, alchemy

Mental Description: Fara is quite a cynic, having seen too much mayhem and atrocities during her time in the black Marsh to retain much faith in men, mers or beasts. As she feels having much simply means more to loose and attract trouble, she's just coasting along, fighting boredom with simple (and cheap) fun like carousing on someone else's money when off-duty. She don't cares about the war and isn't interested in becoming an officer. Watching over her own skin is already enough of a pain... She has a very low opinion on most of the regulations, equipment, tactics and officers, considering them as suited to the Marsh as hooters to a bull.

Physical Description: Fara is a young bosmer woman of average size, on the slim rather than voluptuous side. Her face is far from outstanding, most would describe her as nice or cute rather than pretty. Her light built is misleading, as years of hunting service followed by month of legion training have muscled and toned her frame.

She's wearing a bosmer-made leather and bone armor, with cuirass, greaves, bracers, and a light helmet, the leather has a dull, greenish brown color. Under it she's wearing a short linen tunic and skirt, stained by the weather and the unwholesome mixtures she's experimenting with to keep the insects at bay. Over it she wears the regulation cloak, with the rebreather usually kept tightly tied to her belt. She has discarded her regulation boots to use leather mocassins of bosmeri design, sturdy enough to whistand most thorns but light and supple enough to swim or climb.

Height: 5'5"
Weight: 100 lbs
Hair: dark brown
Eye Color: black
Scars/Tattoos: none

Armor/Clothing: scaled leather armor - a Valenwood light armor. The leather is supplemented with strips and scales of bone, improving the protection to a level equivalent to light chainmail and only slightly worse than mithril, without impairing mobility. Bone don't rust and the leather has been alchemicaly treated against rot, something equally usefull in Valenwood or in the Marsh.
Weapons: bosmeri bone bow - compact but quite powerful, and immune to humidity (Valenwood is about as rainy and wet as Black Marsh, only better drained), steel shortsword (with weapon grease poured in the sheath to keeep the rust at bay). Quiver of thirty arrows, ten of them are silver-tipped, the reste are steel.
Inventory: compass, small mortar and pestle, hammoc, utility dagger, folding sapper's tool, first aid kit, several sample pots of her last insect reppelent mixes, a flask of moonshine, tree-climbing gear.

An alambic at the base camp, she's supposed to use it for her experiments with insect repellents but brews moonshine on the side.

Bio: Fara was born in a somewhat destitute bosmer family in Valenwood, her parents scraping a living as hunters. She learned the way of the hunt and the bow, but didn't improve her condition much - owing to her spendthrift and lazy habits.
She was merely coasting along with that life when a night of drunken revelry suddenly changed her situation : with the fumes of alcohol dissipated, she found she had signed for joining the United Council's military. With a pair of firm and barely polite council soldiers standing ready to enforce the contract by chaining and dragging her if needed....

Dumped in the black Marsh mess after a few month of mostly irrelevant training (marching in ranks, using heavy armor, a bit of siegecraft - didgging, hauling siege machine parts, that sort of things...), Fara's hunting skills have kept her alive and she even managed to increase in rank a triffle - she tends to swing back and forth between sergeant and corporal depending which of her skills or her temper prevails in her superior's opinion)

As the flying machine made it's way abvoe the march, Fara didn't bother looking out What for... some might find the delicate nuances of grey, green and brown rot fascinating, but that's just rot. Damp, stinky, and clinging rot. About as rottten as the Council's brains... Tossing gold to let it sink in the mud. And us soldiers in the grinder. Bah, just another dump, entrench, scout, carry back the news and the corpses job. Better rest than worry while I'm up, down there it's the reverse.

Stretching as far as the flying machine allowed and using her pack as a makeshift pillow, Fara settled for a nap, shutting the noise and motion of the flying machine out of her mind with the ease of experience.

Seems so, however that seems like something you would make.

Name: Fanier
Race: Wood Elf/High Elf
Age: 61 (appears 24-27)
Gender: Male
Rank: Corporal


General Appearance: 6 feet, 2 inches, due to high elf ancestry. 160 pounds, little body fat, average muscle mass. Brown hair, often tied in a short ponytail or let loose in a short, ruffled fashion. Hazel eyes, some stubble around chin and upper lip.

Mental Description: Charming man, though has a bit of somberness behind the charm from the death of his wife fifteen years ago. When forced to talk about his wife, he becomes irritable, sometimes breaks down. Always carries her amulet to remember her by. He doesn't like it when people try to feel sorry for him. He isn't bothered by blood, gore, etc.

Armor: Full chainmail armor, no helm.

Clothing: Standard issue cloak over armor, always wears his wife's amulet.

Weapon: Steel shortsword, steel longbow, quiver of 30 arrows. The shortsword is diagonally strapped to his back rather than his waist.

Misc: deadly with shortswords, good with bows, knows journeyman restoration spells. Knows the effect of most ingredients. He can also play the lute/guitar/mandolin/etc.

Bio: 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.

He was drafted into the legion four months ago, and really didn't care. It was just like another job.

OOC: Sending Char Sheet now. BTW, no M16's? Or were they M2 Carbines, the updated version of the M1 Carbine? Meh.)

I have a question, are you alowed to be an argonian but still be with the united council.

ooc: yeah. Though, PM Atomic with the questions

(Approved by Atomic who is currently out of commision. For anyof you who dont already know, Siberia is in charge while Atomic is suspended)

Name : Matthew Veron
Age : 19
Race: Breton
six : Male
Rank : Corporal

General Appearance : Young, soft looking face. Blue eyes, 5A.M shadow on his face, and short brown hair. He has Aviater-styled Glasses

Mental profile : Both he and 2 brothers and numerous friends from his neighbourhood in down town Imperial City joined up for what they though would be a great adventure. He is smart, and knows allot about healing medicine and healing magick. He manages to do sort of well underpreassuer, but eventually, it could get to him.

Armor : Matt wears standard issue iniform for soldiers of a smaller ranks, such as private

Clothing : Keeps a camo-flauged green and black, and assorted browns, cloak with him. When he's not out in the field he wears a standard UC uniform

Weapon : Normal everyday Imperial Long blade

Miscellany : Assorted medicines and a number of healing scrolls

Bio : Born to a lower-middle class family in down town Imperial City, Matt and his 2 brothers (and 1 sister) were bread in the streets. Often he and his brothers would get themselves drawn into a fight in a bar and come out on top. There Father was an alchoholic, and mohter a hippie. The ends were bound to meet. While the mom went off chasing Skooma, the father managed to keep the kids together long enough for them to be sent off too live with there aunt just down the street. There father later died, when Matt was 14. His brothers and sister managed to hold on long enough, though with no money, college wasn't an option. He had no choice whatsoever but enlist in the military. He hopes to get enough money to pursue a career in medicine when he retires.

Well it wasn't uncommen for there to be translaters and such in Real Vietnam, so i would see nothing wrong with this

ooc: yeah, Any race ya want. If argonian give a good reason as to why they are there. Like, could be imperial born argonian. Never know.

ic: Zared slowly stood up, after sorting through his equipment he started to hum a soft tune. It was a khajiiti tune, a military one used by the warrior guard when they knowingly were marching into a battle they wouldnt come out of, at least alive. It sounded somewhat heroic, especially when sung in Ta'agra it sounded even more so. As the airship began its quicker decent into the pits of the unknown black marsh. Closing his eyes slowly the young male khajiit placed a paw on the cold bar of the airship, his body and mind calming down, slowing down like as if time itself was. The view was beautiful from up here, the altitude they sat at. The mountains, the border to Morrowind. Opening his eyes again staring into the beautiful scenery. Time itself however had seemed to slow down to a near stand still, in a sense it was one of those moments in time, that was perfect. Those emerald eyes scanned the horizon, then down at the moziac of Blackmarsh. The southern forests that collided with Cyrodil, the inner swamps and northern marshland.

Shaking his head snapping out of his little trance as the airship slowed down, jolting slightly before hitting the ground. "Into the meat grinder meat bags!" the maniacal altmer squawked from his seat. Zared pushed the door open slowly and looked at the others "Our goal is simple! Make camp and take note of all enemy positions. That and survive. Lets go!" he spoke out, his tone authoritative but not over taking on the captain. Who seemed to be rather silent at this point. Out the door and into the dry clearing of the black marsh. This spot was near the southern border where it meets Cyrodil and the Niben river. Zared looked around, as his boots touched the slightly damp grass, the smells of swamp, forest and water filled his nostrils almost over powering his natural, incredibly strong sense of smell.

[OOC : and even native argonians can be opposed to the Republic - wether nt believing in it's program from the neginiing or turned away from the shape it took.]

As the flying machines started it's final approach, Fara immediatly snapped out of her nap. Awakened by the change in motion and noise as the machine prepared for landing. Funny, I learned to filter out tavern noise but awaken if someone tried to creep on me. That turned out as real boon in that stupid war.. As the fina ldesent started, Fara attentively watched the area for any signs of occupation, seeing none. Seems like the landing zone is clear, but one can't be totally sure. Too much cover. But at least it seems they dropped us someplace dry, at least by the Marsh's standards.

As the pilot landed and served them with his manical 'encouragment', Fara replied in tune "Yeah right flyboy. Go back to the pretty clear sky, where any lizard with eyes and strong magic can fry your golden behind goodbye", punctuating her comment with a one-finger salute. She jumped from the machine, reflexively scanning her surrounding while cording her bow with the ease of experience, redy to let loose at anything hostile. With a clear weather, any lizard nearby was probably aware of their coming, and either running into hiding or gathering his fellows for an ambush. And we set a camp By The Book, giving them plenty of time to do it. Stupid Book. Just good enough to start a fire or wipe yourself.

Fanier looked over the airship's railing as he felt the change in motion. They were finally descending into the jungle, that point of no return. He took in a breath of the hot, humid air. It saturated his nostrils with the heavy moisture and the poignant smell of rotting vegetation. Better get used to that smell, he thought. You're going to be here for a while. He kept thinking to himself, deieving himself into thinking that he was going to live through this. But under all the thoughts, in the back of his mind, he knew that this would be the place where he would die. Fanier gently palmed the amulet on his neck, and touched it to his forehead. And then I'll see her again.

The pilot made a remark that Fanier paid no attention to, and he motioned for them to get out. Fanier walked through the door, and stepped into the jungle of Black Marsh. He looked around him at his sergeant and lieutenant, who seemed ready for anything. He wiped away his thoughts, and focused on the situation at hand.

Matt jumped out of the airship as the pilot motioned them to get out. Landing on the soft ground, a pungent smell hit his face like a vapour. He thought it smelled terrible from the air, but now the smell made him gag and he though he were throw up. He managed to quell the feeling.

Shifting his swords sheath, he moved the small bag of medical ingreidiants to his right waist. It had slid over infron of him during the flight, making it uncomfortable. Not to mention the fact that he needed supplies in an area where he could reach it fast. All it took from here was to flip open the flap and get out any supplies or a scroll he would need.

Staring around the bleakness of the jungle, he felt like mentioning how quiet it was.

"So..." he murmred alloud to the other soldiers, "I thought we'd be going to some sort of camp...uh...sir" he saluted smartly, and then stood by a tree gaining a defensive position from any threats to the left. the airship gave defense from the behind, and the front he watched eagerly. Coarse, he was still undefended from the top.

Loking into the trees foliage, he regarded that there was nothing there as he went into a crouch, continueing to watch the dropzone.

Zared eyed Matt with a slightly cold look. "We are building a camp corporal." he spoke in a neutral tone. The airship, once everyone was off floated back up silently and slowly flew away. "Alright, we move now. Argonians and any thing else would have spotted that airship coming in and would be on their way here." with that he began to move east, towards the tree line. "Form a Staggered Column" he whispered to the others and took point. The tree line wasnt far at all from their position.

As the lieutenant took the point, Fara noticed with satisfcation that he was moving quietly, unlike most United Council officers. Well, a Lieutenant isn't a real but only a wanabee officer. Don't feels the need to prance around in heavy, clunky, brightly polished armor. Sure dwemer alloy looks mighty good whit spit-n-polish on it, but you're as subtle as a bordello window. With the big red lanterns, the fancy gold trimmings, the music and the crowd moving in and out.

In the same low tone as the lieutenant she added. "I'll take the rearguard. Move your butts in line and be quiet about it."

As the column started to form and move, Fara followed, slightly crouched, using all of her experience with hunting and the Marsh to make herself as scarce as possible. Using the colum as a bait for whatever hostile eyes could lurk around. A task which the cloak made easier Those cloak are about the only sensible piece of equipment we're issued. And they mamaged to make it almost waterproof. But I'm lucky to have managed to get that bosmeri outfit. Drained all my cash and I had to brownnose far more than I like to, but it was worth it. Those chanmails are pure crap when it comes to discretion and the cloaks can't make up for it all.

Name : Aravey Sarayn
Age : 213
Race: Dunmer
six : Male
Rank : Corporal

General Appearance : Natural red hair and red eyes. His not especially strong, as physical battle isn't exactly his strong side, however in return he is more on the intelligent side, using spells, especialy fire to get the job done.
His face is clean of scars, and so does his body. Ears is ofcourse the regular of a Dark elf, long and pointy.
He is not that old of a Dunmer, he remains without any beard.

Mental profile : He is what you would call semi insance, to a standard ofcourse. This does not keep him from doing his job. When in battle he would seem consentrated and calm, pretty much the same when his out of battle to.

Armor : Chainmail, a standard issue dark green cloak, the cloak is attached to his robe.

Clothing : Over his armor he wears a black robe, no helmet.

Weapon : Personall silver dagger gone in generations within the Sarayn family, on the dagger its inscripted with tiny letters 'Race does not dictate honor'

Bio: Aravey as must dunmers grew up in Vvardenfell, he lives in Sadrith Mora, and trained by his father until he died by a disease he got of a living dead in a nearby crypt outside Sadrith Mora, a distance away. His mother also died, she was assasinated by the Morag Tong, the reason was unknown at the crime scene, however later it was found out she had an unpayed debt. Aravey in all his sorrow got his mind away from it by reading books, and becoming the quite experienced mage he is today. He wanted to explore more than just Vvardenfell, so he was able to get transport to Cyrodill, and he made himself confortable in Cheydinhal.

IC: Aravey heard the Lieutenant whisper the order, he took his position as the second last person in the Columm, Aravey moved silently, he peers around in the place, it is pretty much how he always imagined it to look. He kept look around, keeping his mouth shut. Non of his armor made any sound when moving. Ready for battle, and ready to burn some Argonians when needed.

Matt, being middle in the column, looked behind him at the Dunmer.

What was it again..uh..Arvey...Arnal....screw it Not feeling the need to cause unnecesary noise, he continued walking about, feeling slithly useless. And empty feeling filled him as they walked through the jungle in lcose unision. Then it hit him, what training wardens taught him in class.

Whispering only loud enough for the squad to here him, he pointed out, "We should keep our intervals. If we're all close, it'll only take one volley of arrows to cut us all down. Mineaswell atleast know what hit us, eh?"

He slowed down a bit to let the men infront of him gain some ground before coninueing, holding his swords grip tightly in his right hand, hoping to be ready for anything.

(OOC: Wheres that Lycan? Thought he'd join. Hm.)

Fanier followed with the rest, staying near the rear of the column, behind the dunmer. As they walked, he took the bow from his back and readied it, just to be prepared. He looked behind him, and saw the sergeant, who seemed like she was hiding, staying in the shadows as she went along. Though he thought it strange, she looked like she knew what she was doing.

In the corner of his eye, he saw something moving in the trees. "Hold on," he said in a low voice to the others, as he aimed his bow where he saw the motion. Fanier closed one eye to get a better aim, then held his breath to steady the bow. He stayed in that position, waiting for any more evidence that something was indeed there. You've only got thirty arrows, he thought. Wait until you know you have a shot.

With that, he exhaled, and lowered his bow. "It was nothing," Fanier told the others. "Just thought I saw something." Still looking behind him at that spot, he moved back to his position in the column.

Zared twitched and looked back at Matt first his ears flattening slightly "Stay in formation and keep your backside in position. Keeping close means if one of you goes down by something we know what hit." he then looked at Fanier giving a slight nod "Dont fire or attack anything unless I say so. If you spot something get down low" he whispered back, stopping as they reached a series of rocks. Perfect temporary cover for the time being. "Alright everyone, check everything take a quick breather and drink. Everyone keep watch." he got down low and rolled out his small map, gauging their position on it and looked at the map for any possible camp sites. Removing one of his small Water bottles from his side he took a quick drink. His ears all the time acting as mini-sonic detectors, listening for every and any movement that was nearby.

As everyone settled for a break, Fara made a quick survey around, noting what the likely angles of attack were - being especially wary for water. With their ability to stay udnerwater for as long as they want, and how murky the local water is, they can hide a whole company in a single large pond. And any river gives them a perfect approach or retreat line.. She also looked for any tracks or signs of a recent argonian presence, relieved to find they wer none. Could be they're very good too, but they haven't too many peoples who are that good. They just harass and let the Marsh do th fighting. Smart lizards.

Having made her inspection, Fara voiced her lack of findings to the lieutenant and capitain "No trace of argonians having been there. Either they don't use that place, or they're damn good at cleanup. My money is on the first option.". Then she picked her spot for the pause - a recess amongst the rocks, offering a decent cover but good lines of sights at the likeliest attack line : an area where the undergrowths were thick enough to block sight without impairing motion, and coming close to the rocks. Two, maybe three arrows before contact. But they'll have to climb a bit and expose their flanks to get at me. About as safe as one can find..

Fara sat down as comfrotably as she could, sipping some water and relawing, letting her ears care about the watch, appearing as carefee znd comfortable as a cat sprawling in a warm sunspot.

Aravey sighed while breaking out of the formation and sat down at the rocks, he looked around. He grabbed his water flask and took a sip of it. Aravey stopped drinking, keeping his look down into the ground, into his own thoughts. He actually is looking forward to slay some lizard, it's some time since he last used his powers for battle instead of everyday use out of battle.
Still keeps his mouth shut, his not much of a talking type.