Twenty-eight days six hours forty-two minutes and twelve seconds after the staples of time and destruction usher in the fourth and final era of man, the Obsidian sword of the end times will penetrate the virgin ground of the nexus of the world and shake the realm to its knees. Rivers will dry and famine will reign, the skies will sing in storms as they engulf the Black tower with their thunderous embrace.

- Prophecy of the Diamond Tablet




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The First day of the forth Era.



It began with a whisper.



A whisper carried on the wind with the defeat of destruction; a whisper the fluttered through the hearts of thousands and drew them closer to the source, a whisper that spoke every word known with beauty that was not.

It was unnatural, unbelievable, but they heard it. In droves of hundreds people flocked to what they where now calling the Nexus -- Cyrodiil. Gathering at the foot of Gnoll mountain where the whispers had drawn them to, the Diamond ruin sat atop of the mountain, a prism of a thousand never before seen colours in the light of Magnus.

Only one man entered. A simple scholar of no claims to fame or any groundbreaking intellect, not in comparison to his peers any way. However, where every one else heard a beautiful whisper he heard something different, a desperate scream clawing through his mind.

He re-emerged seconds later though to him is had been a lifetime, he did not walk out the same man, young and full of life. He walked out shrivelled bitter and grey, speaking in tongues that none knew, holding a diamond tablet tightly to his chest. The only words anybody got out of him in a language that could be understood where simply Twenty-eight days? The Obsidian sword?




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Twenty-eight days after the appearance of the Diamond ruin.

It ended with a scream.



The screams of hundreds, pain anguish and fear, all drowned out by the destruction as the spiralling Obsidian tower reduced the Imperial city and the surrounding land to dust and rubble as it commenced its corkscrew climb to the heavens. The few people who saw the towers birth died immediately after as a bellowing storm engulfed its walls, spiralling around in a torrent of black clouds and white thunder.

Then the climbing stopped, the tower stood still, cradled in the arms of a relentless unnatural tornado. People gathered around the remnants of lake rumare all transfixed by the great monolith, some screamed of the apocalypse, others preached of the coming of the gods who would finally walk among men.

The only person who did not sing scream or preach was the wizened old scholar who ventured too far into the diamond ruin; he didn't say a word as he walked across the still standing Imperial bridge that once connected the City to the fishing town of Weye, he just walked on and disappeared into the storm.

It took twelve hours for anybody to notice he had gone; by then heroes, adventurers, soldiers and scholars gathered with the horde of people gathered at the edge of Rumare. The Champion of Cyrodiil amongst them, standing in the centre of a fire lit camp in the same glistening gold dragon armour he had been awarded by the Elder Council, a meagre reward in his own eyes for all he did for the empire.

He was the second to enter; alone and proud, he walked across the bridge to the storm-shrouded tower, twenty-eight hours later he left, but not by conventional means. Hundreds of people took a break from debauchery and celebration, fear and preaching, prayer and singing, to see a body in shining gold armour falling through the spiralling black smoke that acted as a veil to the tower.

The body never hit the ground however, with a crack of white lightning and the grown of a demonic thunder he was whipped from the sky, disappearing into thin air.


Now many people question what evils lay in the tower, they wonder how the champion could so easily be over come, they whisper of the end of times.

Not much is known, but many believe that time is running out.

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Character Sheets:




Name: (Nicknames and pronunciations as well if possible)
Age: (don't have to be specific, a ball park figure like 20-25 or 40-45 will suffice)
Race: (If you're a vampire mention it here. No half breeds at all, I don't want to be sending people character sheets back saying they cant be half dunmer half Breton just because they want red eyes and light skin.)
Gender: (obvious)
Birthsign: (Don't make anything up and we should be golden)

Appearance: (includes height, weight, build, and hair colour eye colour hair style facial hair, everything you can into this bit.)
Clothing/Armour: (Please keep it realistic -- refrain from using ebony and glass and Daedric and other extremely rare materials such as that.)
Weapon: (Same again, no enchanted gear, maybe you can find something later but not now.)

General skills and talents: Do NOT just give me a list of major and minors, not interested. Please don't just tell me he uses a sword, what kind of swords? What kind of fighting style? Etc etc, describe it.

Personality and temperament: (How is your character under pressure? What is he/she scared of? What is his/her ambition? Are they funny? Sad? Humourless? Bitter? It all goes here..)

Brief History: Doesn't have to be pages long, but please don't send me a paragraph with "Some years later" repeated every line with a small event after it, I wont buy that. I want some level of details, even insignificant events or what your character parents or first loves looked like, or their first home or where they currently live, its all relevant and may very well effect what happens to your character as an individual in this story.

Misc: Couldn't't fit something any where else? Put it here






Rules

1. Character sheets must be Pmed for approval first.
2. Romance is cool with me if you have to do it, but lets keep it PG13
3. Ubering or character control is out of the question.
4. Be polite to other Rpers, anybody being rude or abusive will be out.
5. OOC only posts must be relevant to the rp. If your just posting to say your busy don't bother, a pm will suffice.
6. No mind reading or omniscience. Be realistic, if some one posts something sneaky don't automatically have your character just so happen to notice it every single time. It gets annoying.
7. Be creative, have fun with your posts don't just throw up something you whipped up in 5 minutes because it feels like a race to you.
8. Enjoy.

Name: Almerion (Pronounced Al-Me-Ree-on)
Age: Looks 50-55, really the same age as Barenziah.
Race: Nord, Vampire (Volkihar clan)
Birthsign: The Lover

Appearance: Almerion, a Nord by blood and birth, stands like you would expect, like two Bosmers atop each others shoulders. He is around 6'8/9. He is old and decrepit upon first impressions, but only because he wishes to look so, those who are all to eager to believe this illusion will often pay dearly, when not holding up this charade, He combs his hair back in a neat tail, This trick alone shows how he truly looks. And aging 50 year old man by some accounts. His handsome, yet pale face seems extended in length due to his long white beard, which grows from what once could be considered a goatee, but now reached midway down his chest, his cheeks are hollowed and shaven. His hair is also long and white, reaching halfway down his back, he tied it with a red ribbon.

He still has the body of a his young twenty year old self, the chorded lithe muscles and bulky frame. Some say his eyes are void like, for they are cold and empty, yet the shine red with the blood of his kills. He cannot recall a single time in which they have shown mercy. Though laugh lines can be seen beside them.

Though in appearance he is old, he still holds on to the handsome vestiges of youth, he can use both to his advantage when he needs to, women fall for his charm and looks with a push from his Vampyric gifts, Men fall for his false weakness of age, only to underestimate him and pay a fatal price.

Clothing/Armour: Almerion wears a fine red silk tunic, with black silk pants. He hides his armoured arm with a thick black travel cloak and black gloves, he often leans on an old staff, limping along at a gentle pace in his leather shoes. He likes being underestimated, The guise of a weak old man suits him well.

Weapon: Proffering unarmed combat over armed combat, Almerion has honed his fighting techniques beyond that of any man alive which he knows of, his left arm is encased in metal, a modified armour from a suit of ebony, the kind of armour you would expect to see on the arm of a gladiator, only there are not breaks in this armour. The tips of the gauntlet are modified, each finger has a talon like claw upon the end of it. The knuckles are each studded with a small steel sharpened stud. On the Shoulder of this ebony casing is a green pommel jewel, It vibrates with untold power when Amerion gives into his blood lust, Though this power does nothing to Augment his abilities, it simple feeds on bloodlust.

General skills and talents: Almerion is gifted in the Art of martial combat, or hand to hand combat. He is fast and strong. He uses an aggressive fighting style, often pushing an attack relentlessly even when he cannot land a blow, pushing his enemies to the edge until they falter and he can strike. He uses Alterations creatively, using some offensive spells (burden etc) defensively and some defensive and miscellaneous spells offensively (levitate, shield spells etc) he is also a very skilled painter. Many would say this was a useless skill in the field, but his attention to detail gifted through his skills with a brush have saved his life on many occasions.

Personality and temperament: Almerion is a relentless rage filled soul with good reason, he has had a torturous life that's turned him into a monster he once feared to be. But this doesn't stop him enjoying the few pleasures of lifes bounty that a vampire can enjoy, he can often be quite charming. He has a very dry sense of humour when it does occasionally emerge.

Brief History: (Through the eyes of a vampire fan fiction, I'd write up a brief history but I don't want to ruin the ending )


Misc: He carries a cherry wood pipe and pouch of tobacco along with four different flasks on his belt, the flasks all contain blood.




IC:



IC:

Campsite on the edge of Rumare




It was a scene that not one person could say they had ever seen before, a campsite had been erected in the old village of Weye -- which was now nothing more than smouldering rubble and splintered wood, a carcass of its old quaint self.

Now however there where tents left right and centre; a few remaining legionnaires where trying their best to assume control over the situation but where failing miserably, mostly due to the Sanguine worshipers who had travelled over to investigate the black swilling funnel clouds enveloping what looked like a large black as the nigh sky tower that stood where the city once was. However, due to the short attention span of the Sanguine worshipers they had since gotten bored of the sight and where now drinking and making love in plain sight.

Almerion growled quietly as me moved through the crowd toward an old man stood on two box's stacked atop of each other, he was trying to get the attention of the crowd but doing as good a job as the legionnaires around him, which was to say, not a very good one.

"Enough!" Almerion shouted; his hollow ice cold voice echoing around unnaturally amplified by the gushing winds passing through the camp every few seconds, all around the camp heads turned to look at the gaunt carved face of the Vampire, his pale steel eyes flashing red in the flickering fire light. "We will hear what this man has to say, I do not care for this end of the world party you have started."

"Yes.. Yes thank you," The old man muttered to Almerion as he thought about what he was going to say, as if his constant attempts at inspiring order had pushed his speech from his mind. "Ah, yes, We need volunteers to go into the tower, the legion is too short handed for the moment. Any able bodied man or woman will do."

Is that it? Almerion though viciously, [/I] I travel here to make sense of what is happening and still I have no explanation?[/I]

"I will go." Almerion said quietly to the old man as the noise around the camp came back with a vengeance, this time accompanied by loud drawling laughter at the old mans suggestion of entering the tower. "Maybe I'll know what drew me here once I'm inside."

IC:

Marcus Cassius patted his horse on the side. "Be good, sweet love Maria. This could be the last time we're together." He turned to the two burly men that were with him and addressed one of them. "You'll take good care of her while I'm away, Curtis?" One of the armored, burly men nodded. "Good, good. Now, let's go find out what all this nonsense is about."

Marcus lead his two bodyguards (who were carrying Marcus' possessions) away from the three tethered horses. A chaotic crowd was forming around a group of legionaries and a man standing on some boxes. Through the hustle and bustle, Marcus spotted a frightfully brawny old Nord man addressing the elderly Imperial on the boxes in a harsh manner that he, Marcus, would never employ the use of.

He watched the scene unfold, and heard the old man ask for any able man or woman to enter the tower. He also laughed along with the rest of the crowd when the Nord said he would go. But it was a nervous laughter. Something deep in the pit of his stomach was weighing him down.

He stepped forward into the small area the crowd had cleared around the man on the boxes and the Nord. His confidence returned, Marcus said, "I will go. No need to worry!" with just a hint of cockiness. The crowd quieted slightly, and he could just about hear the ladies in the crowd fanning themselves, trying to keep themselves cool from his... magnificence. Just for good measure he flashed the crowd a dashing smile, and the light glinted off his perfect teeth in just the right way.

OOC: The body guards are just there for character development. They will not be following him into the tower.

Name: Luthor "Laru" Franz
Age: 35
Race: Imperial
Gender: male
Birthsign: The Ritual

Appearance: Laru follows his families bloodlines of abnormal height and width. At full stance he is 6'8, a near giant. He weighs only 160 pounds, yet his form is heavily muscular and lithe, like a theifs body. His eyes are light blue and shine with intellect, passion and indomitable will. His face is gaunt, his brow creased with lines of worry, stress and joy. His dirty blonde hair exetends to his neck but is held back by a black bandanna and a full beard dangles past his chin. In the middle of his forehead is the tattoed symbol of the order of Arkay, It is a black box, with a diagnol blue box interweaving, and a gold ankh in the center.
Clothing/Armour: For armour Laru wears a ancient suit of dwarven armour with the symbol of Arkay etched into the center chestplate, and once more on a steel kitesheild. He wears no helm, even when in the thickest of combat, as it muffles his voice and limits his vision, and he thinks the benefits outweigh the risk's. When not wearing his armour he wears simple brown robes and leather boots.
Weapon: For his weapon he bears his favored warhammer "Imperiatrix", a brutally effective weapon with a large head on one side and a vicous spike on the other end, the shaft is made from a rare tree that among the order is simply known as "Ironwood", which is obviously heavy and hard to break. Attached to the shaft however, is a short metal chain, about a foot long, with the other part attached to a cuff around his gauntlet. This prevents him losing his weapon even in the most heated combat. Apart from the shaft and cuff, the head of the hammer is simple steel.

General skills and talents: Laru is a "Master of Arkay" a high ranking preist among the order, only obeying the commands of the Patriarch and Arkay. Masters amass many different skills throughout their lives ranging from mastery of the blade to conjuration to anything in between. Laru has trained extensively in the arts of what he calls "Motovational combat", a skill set that involves combining speechcraft to intimidate the enemy and rouse the spirts of his allies, different forms of magic, his perferred ones restoration and conjuration, restoration to heal the wounds of his comrades and himself to keep up the fight going and conjuration to help turn the tide of battle.

However without being skilled in the use of armour and weapons these skills would only be marginally usefull. As a result Laru is a master at weilding the warhammer, that despite not being the favored weapon of Arkay, it is a wonderfull expression of himself and his combat style. Slow at first yet hardhitting nearly everytime and brutally fatal, and adaptaple to most situations he can use the sharp end almost as skillfully as a surgeon use's a scapel. Relying on his armour and shield not as a means of defending himself but also as weapons he use's his entire body as a weapon, not holding anything back, and utterly obliterating his foes using whatever it takes.
Besides these obvious skills, hes also adept at many little things to, such as classic methods of healing like splints, salves and other basic forms of aid. Due to his background he also knows how to survive off of meager substances and find suitable shelter. Training in the use of such heavy equipment also allows Luthor to carry heavier loads then most others, even being able to carry his full kit plus half of anothers if the need arise's.

Personality and temperament: Luthor is, despite his "old" age, he is still energetic. He is infused with a unquenchable thrist for Knowledge and excitement. He belives only in right or wrong, and is fanatical in his belief in Arkay, so much as to spend months investigating the slightest rumor of Necromancy so as to quash it out. He is usually mellow and slow to anger, but when the right buttons are pushed in the right order he will snap into a seething rage. As a servant of Arkay his greatest fear is not that of death itself but of the disruption of it, and his greatest fear involves his body being used to further the goals of necromancy.


Brief History: COMING TOMORROW!
Misc:
-a full kit involves a bedroll, 5 rolls of bread, 2 canteens of water, a roll of bandage, half of a tent, two poles, a length of rope, 5slabs of venison, his clothes, 50 septims, lockpicks, flint, hunting knife and the book of Arkay.
-due to his many years of trainng and combat his body sometimes pains him at in-oprotune times with random knee aches, tooth aches and sometimes toe aches that make it unbearable to walk momentairly.

IC: Luthor stared up at the collasal tower, jagged spikes, black and needle sharp objects of death. Here and there could be seen corpse's impaled on the spikes, victims of the towers violent asscent from nothingness to reaching the heavens. He belived it could be seen from most areas, it dwarfed white-gold tower in size and width, but instead of inspiring feelings of purity it bristiled with what felt like malice and suffering.

Sighing he turned back to his small lean to, the smell of cooking meat wafting to his nostrils, his mouth watering as the venison sizziling over a fire. Removing it from the spit he tore off a small peice and examined the inside, a cool red center, enough blood left to give it flavor but not to cooked to eliminate it all and turn it into a meal that required more chewing then eating. Muttering a small prayer to Arkay for his meal he tore into the meat with his teeth, and ate.

As he ate, the various noise's of the camp washed over him, from pained crys of the few survivors to joyous voices that rang out celebrating a new begining. Several people where trying to gain order, some surviving legion guards, others scholars or preist's. His eyes followed a Nord as tall as he was but older by twenty or so years, his face barely covered by skin and with white hair and watched as he approached one of the old men trying to say something over the noise. He had turned back to eating his meal when all of a sudden the man shouted out.

"Enough!" the man shoulted; his voice echoed around unnaturally, amplified by the gushing winds passing through the camp every few seconds, all around the camp heads turned to look at the gaunt man, his pale steel eyes flashing red in the flickering fire light. "We will hear what this man has to say, I do not care for this end of the world party you have started."

Laru snapped his head back around, his eyes falling on the man who had spoken. His voice was cold and hard, as if he did not care for anyone. A man with a voice like that and red eyes is not something you see everyday... his suspicons roused, he scrutinized the man, pouring over every detail of the man, looking for the slightest sign of abnormality that would expose him as a crime against nature and something that must be destroyed. Apart from the red eyes, he could find nothing. He turned his attention back to the old man.

"Yes.. Yes thank you," The old man muttered. "Ah, yes, We need volunteers to go into the tower, the legion is too short handed for the moment. Any able bodied man or woman will do."

Almost as soon as he was done speaking, the noise of the camp returning, this time with even more laughter ringing as the idea of entering the tower seemed to be a suicidal deathwish. Laru rose to his feet, gathered his gaunlet-hammer and sheild and approached the old man and suspected abomanation. As he made his way through the crowed another man, this one someone Luthor or any of his other knights would describe as a "namby pamby pretty boy" volunteered, wearing unblemished steel armour. Walking up to the gathering, he spoke, the first words he had said to anyone upon his arrival.

"I will join this expedition into the tower. It is an affront to Arkay and must be destroyed, along with whatever is in it."

Name: Jo'Rath (Pronounced Jor-ath) (Nickname: Valkyr)
Age: 29
Race: Cathay-Rhat Khajiit
Gender: Male
Birthsign: Mage

Appearance: Jo'Rath stands at 5 foot eight inches tall with a moderate build to him. Muscled, toned but not like a full on warrior nor as thin as a rogue would be. His fur is something that stands out in a crowed, a deep silvery gray with a lighter gray on his underside with a white tip on his tail. He sports a few scars on his chest, lower right arm and a large long one going up on his stomach, over his right eye is a small Tattoo of an old rune.

Clothing/Armour: His armour such as it is, is but a medium weight leather curiass which is a mix of red and darker reds in colour, bound to a robe of the same colouration, The robe is an open setup included with the leather he wears finger-tip-less gloves. Valkyr also wears a medium weight set of leather greaves and thick boots with steel plates. Underneath his greaves he wears plain black pants.

Weapon: A Silver plated Bastard sword with runes of ta'agra engraved along the hilt and up the blade.

General skills and talents: Jo'Rath follows the profession of an Arcane Warrior which is pretty much similar to a Battle mage but instead the warrior focuses on more finesse and using magic to enhance themselves more in a fight than throwing out spells of different assortments. His skills lay within the use of the two handed swords such as claymores and bastard swords, with them he practices a rather fast and acrobatic form of fighting utilizing his body as well as blade, however his acrobatic talent also serves him well in other pursuits. To Augment himself in battle Jo'Rath uses the abilities of restoration to fortify his body and perform basic healing arts. To help couple his offensive abilities Jo'rath employs a the schools Illusion and destruction, employing their spells to demoralize or burn/freeze and occasionally shock his opponents. Over the years he has learned to track and hunt down people and creatures, as well as intermediate survival skills such as cooking and pitching tents.

Personality and temperament: Being a royal bastard has given Jo'Rath a good...upbringing to say the least. Often he is docile being the 'runt' and youngest of a large family, but don't take his normally docile behavior at face value for he can quite often especially with lack of sleep he can switch to a very aggressive feline in moments. However he is quite the attention seeker, someone who enjoys a good rub behind the ear or flirt. Though his greatest fear is being abandoned by what little of his family that remains or being abandoned by his friends.

Brief History: Jo'Rath was born in Elsweyr as a Royal Bastard to the Mane himself, his mother was one of the local maids whom he frequently bedded. While such a thing is often known to happen within the khajiiti it is rarely spoken about. Jo'Rath was born on a very cold winters day in the early hours of the morning. Being apart of the Manes larger family he was the smallest and youngest, given special treatment due to who his father was and to avoid any possible scandals that could erupt from the mother. This did not stop the other children exerting their dominance through size over him, making him very docile in nature, but prone to rather aggressive outbursts if pushed to far. When he was eight years old, Jo'Rath began to show a rather odd affinity for magic, through which he set one of his older half brothers tail on fire for aggravating him. While the tail was saved, only his pride was seriously hurt, the older sibling left Jo'Rath alone as did the others they were much nicer to him. But his father didn't enjoy the act and sent the boy to be trained at the Mages Guild academy in the city, they helped him nurture and hone his abilities in time. They found his abilities with some schools rather adept but others were useless, such as conjuration or alteration. When he reached the young age of fifteen he was allowed to choose a specialty in which he would carry, such as a battle mage or a sorceror. Instead he chose something alittle more simple but not easy, the Arcane warrior.

It was here Jo'Rath met his first love, a young seeress from a local tribe being taught and honing her skills. While not exactly love at first sight, they often fought and were at each others throats on correcting one another with spells or words. Eventually however they began to calm down and began dating, it was not to last. For when the young woman left for her tribe once more, her father didn't approve of him and made the pair stop dating. Over the years after, Jo'Rath travelled from Torval to the Imperial city to hone his skills more at the arcane university and with the legion, he travels now, hunting mages or performing other works for the guild or freelance. Always seeking to improve his skills and himself.

Misc: A few gold coins, Flint, bedroll.



Jo'Rath had set his camp fire up a little further from the rest and had been indulging himself in a little of the parties frolics. He had arrived at the tower several days ago and had been lingering around for sometime. Waiting for more people to decide its worthwhile entering the massive tower. He sat down on a crate, staring up at it for a little bit. He could feel the magicka presence of the tower greatly and sighed, It was at that point a rather odd Nord stood out from the crowed by an old man, bellowing out for everyone to be silent, the way his eyes flashed, the deep red they carried like a garnet stone was..very much interesting. He also looked well aged, but his voice was cold and blunt like a winters night in the wrothgarian mountains. With a smile he got up from his fire, leaving behind the sleeping young woman he flicked his hood over his head pushing his way past the odd drunkard, watching a rather odd looking pretty boy in polished armour make his statement Well, shows that there still are pretty boys in this world.. damn idiot wont last I think.. he shook his head and spotted the priest of arkay, easily discernible from the tattoo on his head. The Nord..was different the eyes seemed different as did his whole demeanor.

"Ill go in." he said flatly straight to the point. ""Ill quite happily go through with it." he spoke in a flat, neutral tone, wanting to get a better sound and look of the Nord.

~Of fortune's favor? Release from the Bastion~

"WAKE UP!"

A strong imperial guard stood over the prisoner, who was sleeping in his tattered bedroll that lay so roughly upon the cold stone floor.

"Wake up, you traitorous murderer. Today's your lucky day. Instead of rotting the rest of your life here, you get to go do some work."

Sryner Isildius Varius opened his eyes, being met by the burn of torchlight directly above him. He shielded his eyes, rubbing them gently to remove the haze of his sleep from his sights. He stood up slowly, stretching in the process. The imperial guard continued.

"Your stay here is over. You've been purchased. It seems you've gone from legion captain to prisoner for life to slave for life. Congratulations."

The imperial had a smirk, and as he congratulated the prisoner, he did so without a hint of anything but sarcasm and disrespect. To think only two-and-a-half years ago, this guard would have jumped through hoops to have the dream of becoming what the prisoner he now mocked was.

"A slave?" Sryner asked, confusion swelling within his voice, "To whom?"

"By the nine, how do you expect me to know!? Get up those stairs, your escort is waiting for you."

"My escort?" Sryner asked, tilting his head back, "Where am I going?"

"Morrowind. Amongst the countless argonian and khajiit slaves in the plantations, I assume you'll be the one imperial slave. Again," The guard smirked once more, "Congratulations."

Morrowind. Already Sryner had a good idea of what was about to happen. As glorious a province it was, the only thing Sryner had to relate to Morrowind was the sole reason he was locked behind bars. The one man who ruined his life, and the suspect Sryner had for his release. His name was Alseryi Salyoni, and he was as dangerous a crime lord as Orvas Dren. Just as Dren, however, he has a perfectly fallible estate that generated profit. He was powerful, and he was an enemy.

Sryner had spent just over two years as Alseryi's lapdog to save his father's life, as his father was a political enemy that grew tiresome to the Dunmer crime lord. He had Sryner rob caravans, and eventually assassinate obstacles in the Empire. When Sryner's use ran out, Alseryi sent word that it was Sryner indeed that was the cause of the crimes, and he was imprisoned for his entire life.

This day, the imperial found himself released from prison, and his suspicion was made evident when he saw his escort. It was another dunmer, an agent of Salyoni's, the same man he made the most of his contact with before he was imprisoned.

"Good day, Sryner," He said, "Prison has treated you... terribly."

Sryner said nothing. His cuffs were removed, and he was then released. As he turned to leave, he saw a familiar face. The guard captain of the bastion... it was a man who once served him. That was long ago. Sryner wanted to explain, he wanted to open his mouth and tell the man that was once so loyal to him that his crimes were indeed for good, but he failed to see that as truth. He wanted to say something, but before he could, Alseryi's agent noticed.

"Don't..." He said, and Sryner did not. He looked with disappointing eyes as his former soldier broke eye contact, turned away, and left the room. "You have nothing to say to them anymore."

He was released, but Sryner entered a world he no longer felt in tune with. He was a captain of the Imperial Legion. His father was Capital Regent, a Duke of High Rock with estates all over Cyrodiil as well. His entire family, since his ancestors, had been legionnaires. He had followed the legacy; he had done his family proud, but that was all until Alseryi Salyoni fit the puppet strings upon his hands.

When they left the Bastion, they rendezvoused with a small company of horseman, and immediately they rode to Chorrol. Sryner wanted to ask questions, but instead he saw it fit to keep his mouth shut. When they arrived, he was taken to a luxurious inn build around the tree of Chorrol. In the room sat Alseryi Salyoni.

"Ah, it is you," Salyoni said, "Welcome. Please sit down."

The dunmer reached into a cabinet, and took out a bottle of Surille wine. He poured two glasses, and put one in front of his guest.

"Drink," He said. Sryner did not touch the glass.

"You probably have questions. First off, do not worry. You are not to be a slave."

"Then why did you bring me here?" Sryner asked, "Slavery was the best rouse to get me out of prison so you may finish my bloodline off?"

"Your bloodline!? No, my friend. That is intact. Disgraced by the betrayal of its star son... but intact. I can see why you would think that I would kill your father, as I threatened I'd do for so long when you worked for me, but you would be surprised how easy he was to work with once you were out of the picture. He's done just about everything I've wanted him to do since! Perhaps instead of wasting all those years with you, I should have just gotten you out of the way..."

He paused for a moment, a cynical look crossing his face.

"But you've done good work for me. That is why you are here. As we speak, the Imperial City of Cyrodiil, including the fancy White-Gold Tower and even the Bastion you were imprisoned in only hours ago, has been overrun. A tower has risen in its place, a tower of great hidden power."

"So I am to believe you saved me," Sryner laughed, "That you somehow assumed a giant tower would destroy the city I was in, and you bought me freedom?"

"Yes. You do not believe me now? but you will," Alseryi stood up and dragged a large brown sack from his closet. Steel rang with each pull. "Here. This is a gift for you. I've crafted you armor, and I've made sure to hold on to each of your swords you always loved...

"And look here," He said as he pulled out Sryner's favored silver long sword, "I've even kept this one. You always loved it. What is it about this sword that always kept you sharpening it? Is it the fact that when you killed an unarmed, unarmored man as he slept, it was a clean cut? Do you remember this?"

Salyoni tilted the blade, showing Sryner four black characters that were sketched into the hilt of the blade.

"I inscribed this for you after you first murdered an innocent for me. Do you remember what it means?"

Sryner lowered his head in failure. After so many years of prison, he would take the rest of his life easily over the torture that was sitting in this man's company. Each word was a disgrace, each sentence a story that led to the discredit of his character.

"Yes," Sryner said, "It says: 'Honor: forever lost ; Villainy: that which was achieved'"

"Very good. You shall don this sword once more. You see, though you may not trust me. I've come to trust you. When you worked for me, I preferred your work to that of my agents. I had hundreds of men that I could send to kill a man, but you were the one I truly wanted to send. I need you, you see. Your work is work that I trust. And I need your work again.

"This tower should be just about plaguing the interest of every survivor on the shore, assuming they escaped and swam across Lake Rumare. You will go to the Imperial City - rather, it's remains - and you will be my agent within the party that enters the tower."

"And this tower, why is it so important," Sryner asked, "What is it doing here?"

"Ah, a good question. This tower is old... older than ancient. The aylieds are ancient, and here this tower has devoured their greatest artifact. Within this tower is power beyond that we have ever seen, beyond that we can even comprehend! You shall be a part of the group that uncovers this power. Feel honored, Sryner, that I have chosen you for this task!"

"Well, what am I to do?"

"You... you my friend, are to create a Dragon Break!"

"A Dragon Break," Sryner laughed. "Nonsense. It has not happened for eras, and when it did nobody had a clue as to why, only pure speculation."

"With all my resources, you do not think that I would research a matter of this importance!" Alseryi slammed his fist on the table, clearly angered with Sryner's impudence on the matter. "A Dragon Break occurs when the Aedra god Akatosh is disturbed. Disturbed, of course, I mean distraught. Beaten. You must beat Akatosh to cause a Dragon Break. He is the god of time, and for him to lose track of time, you have a Dragon Break. I do not know what this tower is, that is correct, but within it is no ally to the Aedra. Within is no ally to anything, but within it is the power to utterly demolish everything.

"There are people, Sryner, who, thank the divine, are not as powerful as I, who would use this power for their own treacherous gain. I will use this power to create this Dragon Break, and with a Dragon Break I will see to it that Tamriel is secured."

Sryner sat back in his chair. This was a lot to take in.

~The journey unfolds, to ascend the Tower~

Sryner was eventually set on his way. He went to the gate, and there he met a large caravan headed to the Imperial City to find survivors and deliver supplies. They desperately needed an armed guard, so Sryner offered his help. He would be paid, which was good, because it was likely he'd need money after his work was done in the tower.

It was unlikely he'd receive any favor from Salyoni. After all, it was not his intention at all to harvest any power within the tower for the dunmer lord, nor was it his intention to create a Dragon Break. But he would not flee Cyrodiil and hide. He latched his swords to his waist, donned his new black-and-gold armor, and went toward the tower.

As he neared, the caravan sped up and began scurrying off to find survivors and issue food and weapons. Sryner was paid three-hundred septims for this matter of great import. Sryner dismounted the horse that was given to him, and walked toward the bridge to the Imperial City. There, he found what he was looking for.

"We need volunteers to go into the tower, the legion is too short handed for the moment. Any able bodied man or woman will do."

An old man spoke. Sryner approached, looking at those who responded to the call. As he gazed upon the young, inexperienced men who were raising their arms in excitement, he couldn't help but think back to the end of his conversation with Salyoni.

"Remember, Sryner, you are not there for anybody. Those who enter the tower with you know that they will not likely exit. Most likely, that will be the case. You will endure hardships with them, and just as any time a group of people endure troubled times together, you will grow a sense of companionship with them. Do not do so, my friend. These men, though you will fight aside them, they are NOT your allies. Trust no one, as there is always the possibility that they could be just like you."

Sryner's heart felt like it shattered as Salyoni spoke.

"Would you trust yourself?"

The imperial took his swords, and was on his way with his mission. Though he hated his situation, it felt a little bit comforting to have something to do in this new world of his.

Now here he stood. Of those who were raising their hands to the call for expedition, few seemed to be battle-hardened. A few mages, none of which seemed like they were Telvanni wizards, or anything of the sort, a pretty-boy imperial, and a few others. One man caught his eye, a tall and strong nord. The second things got tough, he'd be relying on the nord to take some heavy blows as well.

"I will!" Sryner said, harvesting all the anger and bitterness within him to a charismatic shout. "I will endeavor this burdening tower, and I will destroy all the evil that manifests within it!"

As he spoke, he did not lie. He felt just as he did back in his days as a legionnaire. He knew people were afraid, including those who were preparing to enter. He was not. His life was forfeit long ago, and to give it a purpose once more satisfied him so much. The fear within those around the tower would hopefully be quelled behind the charismatic shout of a man who, dressed in armor and wielding many swords, seemed intent to lead a charge into the tower.

"And I pray that each and every one of you harbors the will to save this world of ours."

Sryner looked upon the faces around the camp, nodding to those who made eye contact. This would be a struggle, especially if his history was in any way leaked. Perhaps it would have been better to keep quiet, as with less people's eyes on him, nothing was at stake. Nevertheless, Sryner took a step forward, and officially entered the party.

ooc: Slavery is Illegal in the Empire. And in Morrowind it was abolished and would be illegal for even the Telvanni to possess slaves.

ic: It seemed a newcomer had come, an Imperial that was...alittle over armed from Jo'raths point of you. Such weight of all them weapons must have been rather difficult to maneuver in with the armour ontop. The khajiit examined him abit before looking back at the old man, then the young and rather inexperianced looking imperial in the polished steel. Quietly he cracked his neck, stretched his arms and began to mutter off a list of spells quietly, his body pulsing as one of them a basic vison enhancemnt from the Llusion scool took effect.

Name:Guillaume de Bergerac
Nickname: Guy
Race: Breton
Gender: Male
Age: 21

Talents:
Despite all his faults, Guy has received a classical education and is a well read and sometimes intelligent individual. His skills lie mostly within the realm of spoken verse and random, useless trivia although his plans for extensive travel have made it necessary for him to become passably competent with a blade.

Appearance: At 5,9' Guy isn't unusually tall, nor is he very bulky instead rather thin and wiry though surprisingly fit and healthy thanks to a passion for hiking in the hills around his father's manor. Classically pale and blue eyed, Guy is a model Breton and it's was quite obvious that he once lived comfortably. Now though, the once finely dressed young man is looking decidedly ragged as the stresses and strains of his new life are introduced to him.

Personality:
Guy, was raised from a young age on tales of great heroes and evil villains. This has stuck with him through to advlthood and he holds very strong ideals about life, chivalry and adventure that don't quite fit in with reality. He is apt to day dream or to wax lyrical about the nobility of adventure, something he has yet to personally experience, save for the odd thief.

Despite being somewhat detached from reality, Guillaume is warm and friendly, sometimes sharp witted, put simply; genial but unreliable. If you talk to him for a period of time, the enthusiastic young Breton comes across as na?ve although it's almost as likely that he is only listening to what you're saying. When the Breton does occasionally get his act together however, he proves to have a formidable mind, something that would become very quickly obvious if he ever managed to get someone to agree to gamble with him.

History:
Guillaume stared up in awe at the Spire, it stood dark against the sky, surrounded by clouds, swirling angrily around the tower as if trying to rip the colossal shaft out of the ground. Around him, Guillaume was aware of nervous mutterings from the crowd. Guy knew what they were thinking; the champion was defeated. They were doomed. The man in the golden armour had been a talisman of the empire ever since the Daedric invasions. He was a warrior of incredible calibre, a faultless hero. He remembered reading somewhere of a wizened scholar, driven mad by some ruin in the mountains.

Obsidian sword...

The words sent a shiver down his spine, though it wasn't fear that had inspired it. It was tension, excitement.

All the world's a stage and all the men and women but actors

He could feel it now, welling up inside him, he was to bear witness to one of the greatest deeds ever committed. He could practically feel the history flowing through him. He closed his eyes, revelling, swaying slightly in the strong winds cast off by the storm. Guy was sure that he was earning some nervous looks from those crowded about him but he didn't care: Destiny swirled and looped before him, its many webs stretching as far as his mind's eye could see in all directions, black on gold. Yet he could feel them, all drawing in towards him, a line for every one of a million people passing through a bottleneck, it was his moment, his time in the spotlight. Guillaume knew well that a blade rested just above the thrashing lines, ready to slice. Around him stood some of the most powerful and notable people in Cyrodil, all murmuring in fear. He was not afraid, fear comes from darkness, the unknown. Uncertainty was never something that had plagued Guillaume, he was ready, this was his quest, he would be the one to step up to the plate, to win fame and glory to stand forth a shield against the Obsidian Sword. The verse began to flow from his fervour and he murmured to himself, the words coming out in a jumbled muddle as he repeated lines and perfected each stanza. He was unaware of this however as the words flowed pure and clean, as gold as destiny within the darkness of his mind.


Against the Morning Sun

It stands, a solitary, brooding dark
A shadow on the landscape

And Golden heroes toil
Though winds still whip harshly
About its colossal shaft

Hope flickers, and goes out.
Out of reach, barely in sight
Fearful of its fiery touch
We stand mouths agape

Yet we stand still,
Clutching bow and arrow
Swords and shields
Spells at the ready,
Axes by their haft

Ready to stand, to fight at a word
To hold fast the Obsidian Sword.


Weapons:
Guy still carries his trusty steel sabre which he has had since his time in Daggerfall.

Armour/Clothing:
Guy is currently dressed in a leather vest, worn over the top of a coat of chainmail and black trousers. On his feet he wears a worn pair of leather boots, they appear to be quite old although seem to be holding up quite well.

Misc. Items:
Various quills, vials of ink and paper a small collection of assorted books, both fact and fiction and a small amount of money. He also carries a small pack of cards.



IC

“Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”

Guillaume finished softly, his voice fading a way with the final line of the poem. There was a short smattering of applause from the least comatose part of his audience but Guy smiled all the same. A group of drunken Daedra worshippers, still muzzy from a rather spectacular orgy , watched by half the camp in something comically close to horror. The other half of course had simply joined in.

Guy had simply retired to his tent, a little way away from the main group. He'd been desperate to write up his previous effort before he lost that sense of inspiration that always accompanies a new idea. He could see the pages now, in his mind's eye, curled slightly at the edges and covered with script, made cramped and messy due to the lack of a table to write upon. He sighed at the thought of his verse recorded in such a way; he really hated to record his work on paper, it somehow lost its essence when transcribed, never coming anywhere close to matching its brilliance at first imagining.

After that he'd re-emerged and, discovering something close to a willing audience amongst the more sober revellers had proceeded to provide some after show entertainment. Eyeing his audience now, Guy wasn't entirely sure how much of what he'd been reciting would stay with the crowd of listeners, though comforted himself with the certainty that the lives of those who did remember the experience would be enriched because of it.

Sitting back from his audience, that easy fixed of his face as he decided what next to lavish upon his his listeners, Guy became aware the the camp had gone silent. Looking around, he noticed that all who were able had turned their attention towards a makeshift podium. A top was an old man, looking both surprised, pleased even that anyone was paying attention to him, yet nervous for the same reasons.
Evidently not a good orator...
Guy mused. Poetry and, by extention, talking to a crowd was one of the few things in life at which Guy was competent, because of this, his talent often lead him to become quite snobbish about those whom he found lacking.

“Ah, yes, We need volunteers to go into the tower, the legion is too short handed for the moment. Any able bodied man or woman will do.”

Guillaume's smile increased, this was what he was here for. There was familiar tingle at his fingertips; electric, exhilarating destiny pulling him along like a marionette. He abandoned his audience with little more than a curt nod, although they didn't really seem to notice as he left. Pushing his way through the crowd, Guy noticed that he wasn't the only one to respond to the call, he smiled widely at the group,
“Good evening; so you're the other unfortunates who, for some unknown reason, felt the urge to earn themselves some glory in the dark, desolate depths of this alien spire about which we gather.”

OOC: That doesn't mean the underground slave trade in Morrowind and Cyrodiil doesn't exist.


IC: Marcus raised his brow at the others who had stepped forward and volunteered. "My, aren't we a shabby group of philanthropists," he said, giving the decidedly much larger and much stronger men a haughty look. "No worries! I could use some backup!"

Marcus noticed a Breton push his way through the crowd. “Good evening; so you're the other unfortunates who, for some unknown reason, felt the urge to earn themselves some glory in the dark, desolate depths of this alien spire about which we gather,” he said.

He smiled at him, pleased to see someone who isn't quite as rough-and-tumble as his other companions.
"Ah! Good evening to you too, mister, uh... nevermind, it's not important. I am Marcus Cassius, member of the prestigious Cassius noble family of County Chorral. And where there is a problem, I am on the scene!"

OOC: If you don't mind I'll do a little character control to move the group into the tower, nothing specific just "the group moved on" blah blah etc etc, you know.

IC:

Almerion



The Vampire groaned to himself as a very clean prestige suit of armour containing a very inexperienced looking man walked over and offered his services to the old man searching for volunteers, shortly followed by a number of others.

This could get messy? Almerion thought to himself as a priest of Arkay approached and spat some preaching words of black and white views of good and evil. For all he knew the tower was filled with dancing fairies and angels playing harps, not evil.

Then to Almerions dismay another face showed up, a man with too much armour and a few too many swords, the Nord looked him up and down slowly as he said more narrow minded words about vanquishing evil and saving the world. They where all here for glory riches and fame. They where all here for the wrong reasons, Almerion had his own, but he wasn't quite ready to reveal them yet, so he stood in silence and waited.

The only two people who volunteered who Almerion had a slight inkling that he could work well with where two very unlikely candidates, a Khajiit who was straight to the point and didn't show the dogmatic opinions of the other more righteous members of the group, and a very well spoken would be bard who was reciting poetry not ten minutes ago. He didn't know why the bard appealed to him as a comrade, he simply put it down to an artist's prerogative.

"How to we enter." Almerion asked quietly to the old man, who lowered himself down as fast as his arthritis riddled joints would let him to sit atop of the boxes instead of stand upon them.

"Just approach, when the champion entered he simply walked up through the twisting tornado -- it didn't halt him, that's all we saw." The old man wheezed, staring up at the swirling black vortex of black and purple clouds. Spinning around the behemoth tower as streaks of thunder and lightning shot out here and there, whipping at nothingness in the sky.

Almerion looked around at the others, smiling slightly at the irony of it all, he had been alive for longer than these peoples collective years on Nirn, but here he was about to walk into an unknown danger and experience something for the first time just like them, even the oldest of souls would be baffled at what they saw here.

A great shadow fell over him as he stepped onto the bridge; he could see nothing but the bridge and the tower, everything else was shrouded in a sudden darkness, silence rang out as the dominant force right then. He moved forward with purpose and intent, each stride steeled his resolve ever more, every breath shattered it back down to nothing as fear clutched his chest. No man could say they where not afraid of walking into the Abyss, the void, to their possible demise.

The storm didn't move him, the wind didn't buffet him or push back his hair, he felt nothing but peace as he stood inches away from the whipping tornado. Then as he took a step into it, it rose up away from him to reveal a large set of double doors made of a bright almost platinum material, engraved with minute symbols and letters he did not recognise.

They opened simultaneously as the group moved closer, humming in a tone so deep he couldn't hear, he could only feel it vibrating in the core of his chest. He stepped in to the cavernous entry hall,the floor was made up of swords and shield all of designs he had never dreamt of, some in the shape of snake tongues others in the shape of twin crescent moons and large disks, he even spotted a tripple edged blade, looking more like an elongated pyramid than a weapon. Above the swords was a thick green transparent material he had only seen twice before, in small amounts, it was the same material used to craft glass armour -- extremely rare.

To each side of the room was a staircase, one going up into the ceiling to the second floor, the other down into the ground. Almerion wondered which one they should take as they moved forward, but the question didn't need to be asked for the answer to be given.

Without a single warning the far wall split open and out shot a hidden wall made of the same glass material, it moved down the middle of the room with such speed that I was all Almerion could do to jump aside and avoid it. It almost seemed like the towers intention was to separate the group, to make them easier to eliminate.


To one side of the room, the side with the stair case leading upward, was Almerion and the bard and the priest of Arkay, to the other where the rest, the inexperienced noble and the sword laden warrior as well as the Khajiit.

"Now that is troublesome?" Almerion muttered to himself before punching the wall with an ebony encased hand, not even making a scratch on the thick transparent surface. "It seems we have been split up."




OOC: 2nd group, when/if you all go downstairs don't describe what you see. I'll do that for you, you'll just have to look for the clues in my post.

Varber Geves sat, alone, against what remained of a farmhouse wall. His worn hood was drawn over his head, and his dark ringed eyes were closed. His greasy hair fell in a shaggy mess past his brow, half covering his olive eyes. He had been there for a few hours now, retreating to the broken down wall after the worshippers of Sanguine started their nonsense once more. He was not asleep, his thoughts kept him from that peace, but it was as close to rest as the poor man ever got.

'If the square of X is equal to the shortest side length, and the corresponding angle is equivelant to 65.4 degrees, then X must equal-'

Suddenly, a loud shout broke the relative peace of his reflections, though the wind kept Varber from understanding its meaning. He tried to go back to his thoughts, but his curiousity soon got the best of him, and he found himself opening his eyes, still half lidded in a tired, bored appearance. He gave a loud, sickly cough, and slowly stood, supporting himself on the splintered edge of his resting place. He dusted his robe off, but took no other preparations before venturing out to find the source of the noise.

He shuffled past a tent, around half of a lantern post still sticking out of the ground, and one frazzled looking old man, whom Varber recognized as another crazy doom-sayer. He saw a decent crowd gathered around something, and figured it was as good a place as any to look for a shouting man. He ambled through the crowd, bumping into bystanders carelessly, gathering an assortment of irritated looks, but no harsh words. He looked down at his feet, his bony shoulders bumping into a particularly large Nord, Varber continuing on his way as if nothing had happened. The Nord, on the other hand, was not about to let such a weak looking man run into him without an apology, and grabbed the sickly Breton by the scruff of his neck and turned him around.

"Hey! What'dya think you're doin'?" Spittle flew from the man's rosy lips, his bright blue eyes afire. Varber wondered what he had done to anger the man so, but soon became preoccupied by the Nord's tightening grip.

Varber looked at the man jadedly, as if he were a child throwing a tantrum, then gave a long sigh before responding, "Sorry," he muttered, "Wasn't watching." His gaze remained fixed on the Nord's sapphire eyes, never wavering or betraying any sign of fear. He had learned long ago that this tactic usually works, the aggressor tends to give up.

However, there is always that flux in the data, and this man, for whatever reason, did not take kindly to Varber's gaze, tightening his grip on the Breton's neck, and spitting out hate through clenched teeth, "I'll have ta teach you t' pay more 'tention next time, eh?"

Varber lifted his shoulders in a timid shrug, hoping the man just wanted someone to be afraid of him, and kept his breathing regular, despite the quickly clenching vice the Nord had on his esophagus.

Near the front of the crowd Varber heard an energetic voice, catching the statement half way through, his gaze leaving the Nord for the first time, "...And where there is a problem, I am on the scene!"

He could not make out the speaker, but any further attempts were stopped by the Nord's increasing threats, "Look t'me when I'm talkin' to you!" He began shaking Varber violently, the Breton maintaining his relaxed indifference. The Nord wouldn't kill him, and the Breton was a bit tougher than he looked. Though, to be honest, it would have been very difficult to be as weak as he looked.

'Oh dear...'

When Sryner arrived with the group, he had drawn far too much attention to himself than he should have. His circumstances deemed him to be silent; to kill anything in his way while protecting members of the group. For if he spoke, and if he was engaged in conversation, then that would mean he'd possibly be lured to expose part of why he was there, and though Sryner could ruse a tactic or two on the battlefield, he could barely hold a lie during conversation. He immediately began thinking up an alias.

Instead of Sryner Varius, he chose to go by his middle name, Isildius, and should anyone ask his family name, he would claim to be of the Vorytium house. That was his father's name, so it would be impossible to whiff on that. Should he call himself by Sryner Varius, there was always that chance that somebody had a link in some way to the legion, or worse yet, one of his victims. He had no idea how popular the name of the renegade captain was, it was very likely that the legion kept his betrayal under silent lips, but he would not risk exposure. If anything of his troubled past came up while he was in a hostile tower, it was likely that the few people he could call allies would be alienated.

With a name and a house, Sryner then needed to think up a brief history. There were no noble families by the name of Vorytium, thus he would have to be poor. But how could he be poor if he had such elogant equipment? A silver longsword and shiny black armor? He came to the conclusion that his alias would be a mercenary, and since he noticed that there were no Altmer in the group, he would be a successful mercenary who spent most his time in the Sumurset Isles. Perhaps performing jobs for the Psijic Order, as that order was always a spur of his curiosity.

All that would clear up most of his worries. Yet when he looked down, something on his person bothered him. It was his sword. One that he never used, and rarely withdrew from the sheath. It was the Imperial Dragon Sword, one of many, given to each legion captain the day of his acention. Though Sryner's days as captain were never of the glory he expected, such an accomplishment drew Sryner to never discard the sword. It was unlikely that any member of the party would recognize the sword, and if they did, he'd have to think on the fly.

Regardless of his secrecy, here he stood. His mind's wander caught him off-guard, as he found himself straying into the tower before he even had time to examine it. He made due. He scanned the far wall, noticing a few decorations in the that looked very similar to that of the volcanic glass armor that generated around Morrowind and throughout the empire. It was very rare, and though it offered great protection, it was't heavy nor restricting. Sryner would benefit from a set the way he fought, but it was a distant dream to aquire it.

"This tower can't be too ancient. I've seen glass like this before-"

He was cut off. From the far wall, sharp platform of glass was jutted upward, intent to slice all in its path. Without even thinking, he dove to a side. Dust rose, clogging his eye sight. As he stood, he could see the group had been split, and the large nord he trusted to be fancy with a blade was across from him. Grunting, he silently drew his silver longsword, so not to alert the people on his side of the room. The imperial frowned when he saw the characters on the hilt of his blade. Every time he drew his sword, all he could see were them. Every time he saw them, he was reminded of his service to Alseryi Salyoni.

"Unfortunate... be wary, my friends. Take each step lightly, and be quick to the draw. I'll scout ahead."

Sryner looked at the two who he was split with. One was a khajiit, who seemed to be at least able. The other was a noble. Though well equiped, Sryner himself doubted he was anything but average with a blade. Regardless, he kept his mouth shut on the matter, and began to descend the staircase to the next room...

OOC: sorry to be a nitpicker but I made no mention of any armour, just shields and sword beneath a transparent floor, the glass that came from the wall is a solid third wall not arrows or splinters, effectively a barrier between the two seperated groups meant to push one group up stairs and the others down. And Almerion doesnt use weapons, martial arts only.

OOC: fixed, my mistake. I was confused on that part, unsure if it was a bunch of projectiles or a solid wall. And as for your character's weapon, it's more of him just generalizing based on the fact that nords are usually strong warriors.

Jo'Rath kept watching the massive Nord, something about him seemed to ring differently. His training and instinct told him that the Nord could have very well been a Vampire, of which variety he figured it to be Cyrodillic the most blendable of al vampires. His ears flicked as they began to enter the tower, the deep jade green glass flooring which caressed various strange weapons and shields caught his eye. It was transparent but more solid than Ebony.

For the khajiit it was indeed an eerie experiance, alien in almost every way it sent chills up his spine worse than that of a Telvanni Necromancer. At least they were predictable. Kneeling down the khajiit ran a paw across the smooth surface, he then heard something looking up the wals infront of them parted and outshot a similar wall, transparent like the floor. Poising his body quickly Jo'rath leapt to the left landing and rolling to avoid jarring his body.

With a displeasured grunt he got up, looking at the wall then at those on his side "Hmm most...fortunate...and unfortunate.." he muttered seeing he wasnt with the blood svcker or the arkay preist. Instead he was stuck with the Heavily armed imperial and the odd looking noble. The imperial made it clear he was moving on and decided to follow "Ill stay with you. Never know what you'll find" he said softly, his ears perked up like radar dishes, listening for the slightest sound.

ooc: Tryin to keep each party balnced with fighters/mages

Guillaume was awestruck by the tower, from the moment when he'd first stepped, tentatively onto the bridge and been engulfed in darkness he'd been enthralled by the strange place. Lines of poetry flitted through his head but the party was moving fast through the void, depriving him of the time to finish the muttered verses,

Deep into the bowels of darkness we go,
Past twisted fates, deafened by woe
Through this void we flow,
Lethargic in the smallest of infinities

And they were through the great shining gates on the other side. As one the party seemed to breath again, Guy looked on, thankful for the distracting mantra of his poems, it was the way in which he handled fear, made sense of the unknown. Looking around, Guy found yet more to marvel at beneath his feet; the floor was transparent, slightly green in tinge. Someone, Guy didn't both to look up to identify them, remarked that they'd seen the substance before and Guillaume felt mildly irked that a fighter should should know of things that he, an educated and worldly poet did not. The feeling passed quickly however as he stared in fascination at the distinctly alien weapons and armour that littered the floor beneath their feet.
Certainly worth recording...
He mused, unshouldering his pack as if to draw out pencil and paper to record a choice few of the items.

He was distracted however by a heavy thunk, followed by the sound of someone hitting the unforgiving floor hard. He brought his head up to find himself staring into the opaque greenness of yet more of the mysterious floor glass. He remained calm, if momentarily confused at the speed at which the wall had appeared, noting that the group had been split, leaving him with a Nord and an Imperial, a Cyrodil born local maybe. The Nord punched the wall, Guy nodded as the big fellow stated the obvious before glancing back down at his page, noting that the paper had been neatly sliced where it had intersected with the wall. It never occurred to him how close he'd come to being sliced just like the paper. As such, when he stood up, his legs were still steady and his expression in a habitual half smile.

“Well then, I think our best option is to simply step into the void” he said, motioning towards the staircase that the far end of the room, “The unknown is infinite, let us shrink it.”

Whoops, looks like I missed the big entry by ninja. Oh well. Solidor, the wall bisecting the room runs perpendicular to the door, correct? So if I were to enter I would simply have that wall beside me? Then if you don't mind I'll just join you all. I'll just assume I was a few minutes behind you all, after the wall closed the room up, but before anyone moves into the stairs.

IC: The Nord threw Varber across the camp, the Breton skidding to a stop at the edge of the once proud Imperial bridge. He looked up, towards the dark tower and surrounding vortex, and then back towards the crowd, down his shrunken chest and at the large Nord who had started walking towards him briskly. Rather than face the man's wrath again, Varber decided this would be as good a chance as ever to learn more about the tower, and immediately hopped up.

He took one hesitant look at the storms obscuring the lower portion of the black spire, making the split second decision which would be worse, the Nord or the tower. He gave the Nord one final, bored look, and took off across the bridge, several members of the crowd shouting things at him. He closed his eyes as he hit the wall of dark clouds, hoping the wind wouldn't knock him off the bridge entirely, and into the muddy remains of Lake Rumare. He kept his steady pace, expecting to be buffeted at any time, but to his great surprise no storm ever came.

He opened his eyes, finding that the wind had disappeared, 'Is this a dream?'

His eyebrow raised in curiosity, but of the things he had seen from the tower, this by no means topped the list. He stopped, almost running into the open doorway, the open doors shining beside him, seeming almost to vibrate. Varber took a hesitant step towards the entrance, a veil seeming to obscure the contents of the room beyond. He took one last look behind him, the ghostly wind had reformed, the swirling vortex between him and the crowd behind him.

The Breton swallowed, feeling for the first time in a long while the unrational sensation of fear. He took a deep breath, then stepped into the tower, his eyes closed once more.

After passing through the doorway, the Breton heard a voice, caught in midsentence, as if the veil that had hindered his sight had also deafened this room to the outside world, "The unknown is infinite, let us shrink it."

He opened his eyes, beholding a vast jade green room, its walls and floor made of transparent green glass, 'The same material they make the weapons from, it would seem.' Beneath the glass was an array of weaponry and shields the likes of which Varber had never seen, nor even imagined. Their sheer number and complexity made them almost impossible to fathom, but Varber began to notice a few from his studies, his photographic memory recalling the shapes instantly.

He pushed the weaponry aside for further study, reminding himself instead to focus on the situation at hand. He seemed to be alone with three other people, adventurers or treasure seekers no doubt, and he memorized their faces as he studied them. They all seemed to be engaged in conversation, staring at the wall to Varber's left as if it were the most interesting thing about the room. The man who had been speaking, a pale Breton dressed in leather, was motioning towards a staircase at the other end of the room, his phrase becoming clear, an invitation to carry onwards.

Beside the Breton stood an enormous Imperial man, towering over the Breton, a vicious suit of dwarven armor and full beard completing his brigand appearance. Varber's eyes noted a strange tattoo on his forehead, memorized the shape, and set it aside for later, changing his gaze to the third member of the room, an aged Nord in a black cloak, his features pale and gaunt.

Varber waited for the group to notice him, not bothering with any kind of greeting, remaining silent near the doors, his dark rimmed eyes flashing from one person to the next.

Laru remained silent as they crossed the bridge that led to the formal Imperial city, but now into the swirling vortex that shrouded the tower's lower levels from sight. As the group advanced closer he felt a deep bass rumbling in his chest as they walked closer and he felt something he hadnt felt in a long while; fear. Not of death or dismemberment, those fears he had mastered long ago, learned to shove them away in times such as these. But it was a more animalistic fear, something in his mind told him to get away and dont come here again. Grunting he ignored those thoughts and continued placing one boot in front of the other.

The rumbling vibrations intesified untill the chain on his warhammer was literally shaking, and before he knew it he was following the Nord into the vortex. Inside his head he prayed to Arkay that if he died that his soul would join his God in the heavens. He tightend his grip around the shaft and prepared himself for whatever might lay beyond the vortex, and continued on.

What he saw was unexpected. A massive set of ornate doors that opened together, with no mechanism in sight to open them. To his suprise, there was no group of armed attackers, deadra or creatures to attack them, but merely the most intresting hall he had ever seen. The floor they walked upon was made of one of the most valuable substances in armour making, usually rare and in small amounts, here it was abundant, as if it was as common as oak wood was to the empire. Underneath the floor was a collection of the most varied and abnormal weapons he had ever seen.

However, before he even had time to examine the weapons underneath the glass floor, a wall made of the same material shot out from the far end of the wall. Within the few moments of it appearing Laru barely threw himself out of the way before it had effectively split the ground in half. Looking at what had happened, he saw he was with the nord, the bard and frail looking Breton.

"Well, it seems the only options we have are to stay here and rot or up the stairs." He said as he looked toward the stairs.

OOC: Sorry it took me a while to get this post in guys, Its been snowing something evil where I live, there was a car crash up the road (black ice >.<) and some one hit a phone line, they had to shut it down to make repairs, but alas! I am here now noble knights and squealing girls, with a shiny sword of postage and shield of bad grammar! And sorry for going Ninja Gaiden on you Darkom, I thought you'd noticed and where just being polite enough to let some one else post before you did so again





IC:

Almerion





"Well, it seems the only options we have are to stay here and rot or up the stairs." The gruff voice of the Arkay warrior came, pulling Almerion from his train of thought, which was irrelevant any way. For some reason he found himself thinking of the time he spend with the thieves guild in the second era. "

"I wonder though, which is the lesser of two evils? Whatever we find beyond this door could very well be the end of us." Almerion said quietly as he started up the broad stairs case, careful not to slip on the extremely smooth glass surface. "You, with us." He added to a greasy haired Breton standing a few feet away."


Atop of the stairs was a large black door, simple wood painted, nothing extravagant -- it wasn't meant to keep them out. Atop of the door was a series of strange symbols and letters, though Almerion didn't recognise the language.

"Can anybody read--?" He said, his last words cut off as a shivering rasping gust of air blew around them then evolved into a soul freezing voice, but not like any voice Almerion had ever heard before, it sounded like a hundred children speaking in unison.

I live off my own body, I am devoured with heat and light.
But with that in mind, I am also inclined, to rebuild myself In the darkest cold.
Without a dish to keep me safe, I may open the way.

"What the?" Almerion said aloud as he tried to fathom the riddle, he looked back up above the door and noticed the alien lettering had evolved into Cyrodiilic, the voice must have been dictating to it. "Right then? Lets go on."

He pushed open the door to find a strange green gas floating along the floor of the next room -- he walked in and it seemed to envelope him, the walls where lined with skeletons, though not real. They where each sculpted into the thick black stone marble walls. Around them a seried of pipes moved up from their heads and across the walls then up to a ceiling twenty metres from the ground, Almerion followed the pipes to a door on the far side of the room, the door stretching as high as the ceiling -- made of the same platinum material as the main entrance outside was.

Atop of the doors frame however sat a miniscule golden candle.

"A candle?" Almerion said with a smirk as he threw a tiny fire ball, the largest his destruction abilities would allow him to create, and watched as it shot through the air toward the candle. It didn't hit however, instead if performed a loop around and shot back at him, doubling in size with every inch until it was the size of Almerion himself. But if never hit him, he closed his eyes and braced himself but it never came. He opened his eyes to see the last of the flames being svcked into the now open skeletal mouths.

"Now what?" He asked.



OOC: Cmon group Numero two, Got a special treat for you.

ooc: Well two of us are heading down the stairs, waiting for you to tel us what we find

My bad, here you go.





As you move down the glass stairs you feel two things, a noticeable drop in temperature and a sudden difficulty breathing as the air thins out. Beyond you is a tunnel -- coated from head to toe in thick blue ice, a thick mist hugs the walls as you pass through. Then, as you near the end of the long passage way you hear a voice ring out.


"I am you when you look into me, but nothing when your away, I will always tell you the truth, but not a word I say. Point me at my twin, and forever we will be; infinite and endless. But alas dear friends, searchers of the spire, we are hidden from your view, but in hidden in plain sight. Set us free and shine a light and we will show the way."

As the voice fades away you come to a vast circular room, the walls lined with ice and frost so thick not even the brick work behind it can be seen, doors inlaid and unfrozen but with no description of information of what can be found beyond them. The floor depicts a strange image, a series of pointing lines and diagrams that make no sense. In the centre of the room is a pedestal with an oil lamp burning away, the lens closed so a beam of light points out into the thick ice.






OOC: You'll have to solve the riddle to figure out what to do, then I'll post up some more stuff

Sryner had taken two steps toward the stairwell that descended a floor before his khajiit companion stepped forth to offer a helping hand. He seemed to be handy, as he had a large sword on his person and the countless runes on his body had Sryner believing he was a mage of some sort.

Very good," Sryner said, "But do watch out. I've seen plenty of places that have traps set up to dispatch of the last in the group, rather than the first."

Sryner spoke while descending the stairwell, noticing the obvious drop in temperature when his armor grew cold to the touch and his hair stood up from his own skin. The air grew dense, thick, and became tough to breathe in smooth. The room was filled with a mist, and ice was all over. He watched each step, not knowing what was to come.

From across the room, a voice whispered: "I am you when you look into me, but nothing when your away, I will always tell you the truth, but not a word I say. Point me at my twin, and forever we will be; infinite and endless. But alas dear friends, searchers of the spire, we are hidden from your view, but in hidden in plain sight. Set us free and shine a light and we will show the way."

Sryner's eyes lit up.

"It's a mirror. We must find a mirror, possibly a set. Through the looking glass we will find what to do. What say you, my khajiit companion?"

He entered the room after the long corridor, his eyes fixed on the image, perhaps a diagram, on the floor. He could not make out what it was, though he thought that after searching the room, he'd get some clues. The image seemed to be directions of some sort. He walked up to the lamp, with a lens emitting a thin beam of light.

"Hidden in plain sight... perhaps these mirrors are hidden among the ice walls. We must find them, then point this beam of light on them when they face eachother. Then, our path will become clear."

ooc: Only one rune over his eye! xD And well.covered blade


They began the descent into the unknown was indifferent for the most, the Imperial seemed to carry a polite tone as he spoke back to Jo'rath. The temperature dropping rather quickly, the air becoming rather thin to breathe. They then entered a room "I am you when you look into me, but nothing when your away, I will always tell you the truth, but not a word I say. Point me at my twin, and forever we will be; infinite and endless. But alas dear friends, searchers of the spire, we are hidden from your view, but in hidden in plain sight. Set us free and shine a light and we will show the way." he pondered on this and began to run a hand along the thick ice walls"You can call me Jo'Rath instead of khajiit for one..: he spoke softly and politely, then recited the riddle back to himself "We could melt the ice... or remove the frost." he held up a hand close to his body, slowly the air around it began to shimmer and soon a flame appeared, engulfing his hand. He then began to run it along the ice to dissipate the frost.

ooc: Anyone postin?

OOC: Sorry about the delay and the short post, I hope I explained well enough in the bottom OOC.


IC: "Well, it seems the only options we have are to stay here and rot or up the stairs." The frighteningly large warrior with the tattoo spoke, addressing the whole of the party, which now seemed to include Varber.

'Seems that they are trying to explore the tower then.'

Varber turned to the pale Nord, his red eyes betraying his true nature, something Varber had already suspected. He began to speak, his voice cold and sober, "I wonder though, which is the lesser of two evils? Whatever we find beyond this door could very well be the end of us."

He began to mount the dark staircase, looking down at the green glass irritated, then looked straight at Varber, "You, with us."

'How rude,' Varber thought, raising one dark eyebrow at the vampire, but soon shrugged his acceptance. If he was going to explore the tower, he might as well have a group with him, especially when at least one seemed a capable warrior.

He walked slowly towards the staircase, waiting on the other two to go ahead before him, watching as the Nord ascended the glass unknown.


OOC: I wanted to give Evil and Badger a chance to respond to my presence, and go ahead before me if they'd like. Seeing as how I'd have to pass them in order to get to the staircase, I wouldn't want to keep their characters from meeting mine before we start the action. Thank you.