Traitors or Heroes?

In the early days following the defeat of Mehrunes Dagon, no one dreamt that another catastrophe lay at their doorstep. For a while, people accepted the de-facto rule of High Chancellor Ocato without protest, although there were whispers that the Chancellor was quietly solidifying his own power. Yes, an opponent here or there disappeared, and a rival hither or thither was found murdered...but these things were put down to coincidence.

Even when the Imperial Guard was relegated to a secondary standing, in place of the Chancellor's Militia, people murmured but were not terribly alarmed. In retrospect, Ocato's plan was plain as day...but nobody saw it...at least, not until it was too late.

On the second anniversary of Mehrune Dagon's defeat, Ocato had himself crowned emperor in the Imperial Palace. All but a few of the Elder Council -- those who could not be bribed -- were noticeably absent for the event, and not seen again after that day. Ocato's planning had been thorough, and he immediately activated his network of spies and thugs. "Traitors" were reported to the Chancellor's Militia -- now the Emperor's Militia -- by neighbors and friends, and hauled off the dungeons -- or worse. Dissent was utterly squashed. Any and all protest was met with instant, harsh retribution by the Militia. Many, including most of the high ranking Imperial Guard, were executed as rebels and traitors to the empire. The Blades were all but exterminated, with the few remaining soldiers fleeing into the mountains and swamps. Even the Champion disappeared, but whether that was by Ocato’s hand or his own design is uncertain.

Cyrodiil is a land of fear and unease, outwardly subdued by Ocato's brutality, but inwardly festering with secret resentment and an unspoken longing for justice. Yet no one can trust his brother, and so Ocato remains in power...for now.

Rumor has it that the Champion has returned to Cyrodiil. If the rumor is true, the Champion is about to become the most sought after person in the empire -- sought after by Ocato, who will surely want him dead, and sought after by all those who have been driven from their homes and are seeking justice.




Ocato tapped his fingers impatiently until at last he heard footsteps outside his door, echoing down the hall. There were three sets, two of which were the self-assured steps of fighting men, and one that was the timid step of a trepidatious man. Ocato smiled at the sound, his impatience waning. His guest had arrived.

The massive arched doors to his grand chamber opened noiselessly, and an old, richly robed man escorted by two armored soldiers stepped inside. The newcomer was old, thin, and a bit sickly looking, seeming all the frailer because of his obvious terror. His exact age was uncertain, but the deep lines in his face and the thin layer of white atop his head pointed to an advanced age, at least for a Breton.

Ocato's smile was hidden now, and he met the old man with a steely glance. "Arch Mage Dragovic," he stated coldly.

The old man fell to one knee, and spoke in a quavering voice, "My lord."

"Do you know why I've called you here?"

"I...I think so, my lord," the mage said, stumbling on the words.

Ocato repressed a sneer at the cowering old man before him. "You think so?"

"I mean, yes, my Emperor," Dragovic answered, his tone still one of fearful submission.

"Good," Ocato declared. "You've created a problem, Dragovic...your persistence in maintaining Traven's ban on necromancy has caused this empire untold grief."

The old man swallowed hard, and seemed to want to say something. He remained quiet however.

"Up until now, you've managed to take care of the problems...tolerably well, at least." Ocato sighed deeply. "And now...now, this business with the Argonian...bad enough that he escapes the men you send to guard him, but now he's vowed vengeance on me -- me!"

Dragovic swallowed hard, and managed to speak. "But my lord, he could never hope..."

"Oh I know that well enough," Ocato snapped. "No one can get through my security. But the fact is that he's said it, and that people know he's said it -- and he's still at large! Now I, Emperor Ocato, look weak, unable to lay my hands on one puny rebel." His glare fixed on the Arch Mage. "And because of your bungling, Dragovic! This mess is of your making, entirely."

Dragovic's gaze fell to the stone floor, and he began to shake visibly.

"Which means that it's up to you to rectify it," the Emperor continued. "Or I will have to put someone in your place who can."

"Yes my lord," the quaking mage declared, "It will be done."

"It had better," Ocato replied calmly, "or you will be..." He saw with satisfaction that the old man's quaking had intensified, and then he nodded to the escort. "Take him away."

The Arch Mage rose, bowed, and practically ran out of the Emperor's chambers. Ocato shook his head and sighed as the doors closed behind the trio. His Arch Mage was more of a mouse than a man. "Oh well...he will not be there for long."

Ocato rose and paced the floors of his spacious chamber. For all his quaking and cowardice, Dragovic was a powerful mage, and might have made a formidable enemy, had he been a little less cowardly and a little more courageous. As it was, however, his cowardice had brought him into Ocato's camp very quickly, and transformed him into a fearful shell of a man. "Oh well," he repeated. "He'll be gone, soon enough."

Ocato wanted a braver man in his place, and one who shared his vision and interests. Dragovic, he was sure, would betray him in instant, given any real hope of success. He sighed. "And Dragovic isn't the only one..." That was his security: the fact that no one had any real chance of success in opposing him. If he lost that...he would lose everything.

He strode to the window of his tower, and looked out over the city and empire below. "Cyrodiil...my Cyrodiil...so beautiful..." he sighed. He loved this land. He had always loved this land; he had always wanted it, indeed lusted after it, and he had pined for it when it seemed out of reach. Now it was his. He would keep it, whatever the cost; he would keep his power, no matter how many traitors opposed him.

The people, he knew, called him a tyrant; but he called them fools. He was only doing what every other great man in history had done. He was taking what was within his grasp when it was within reach. They were doing what every petty and conquered people throughout history had done. They were resenting his authority, and daring to judge him. They, who were such fools that they could not protect what they now lamented the loss of, dared to judge him. That was the difference between great men, the men that history remembered, and little men, the ones who were forgotten as soon as their lives expired.

He shook his head. Life was just a struggle for power. They were the fools who had lost, and he was the great man who had won. As long as he was vigilant, it would remain thus, and history would remember him, and forget them. He would be vigilant, and hold onto all that he cherished, and take all that he coveted. He had waited a long time for this time...he had outlived Emperors and heroes, warriors and gods...this was his moment, and he would not squander it.

* * *

The sun was setting into the western sky, and the horizon was a beautiful palette of reds and pinks and purples. The warrior smiled. This was his country, a land for which he had fought a god, and a land for which he'd watched two Emperors -- real Emperors -- die. It was moments like these, alone atop this hillside, looking down on the beauty of the Imperial city and its surrounding country, that he was at ease.

He watched the hues of red and purple merge and shift for a few minutes, and then sighed. His path, the one he'd chosen for himself, might take him anywhere; he might never see a sight this beautiful again. But he was glad of seeing it now. It would make the harder times a little bit easier.

And there would be hard times ahead, he knew. He was about to embark upon what would likely be the greatest challenge of his lifetime: he was about to wage war against Ocato, his Militia, his network of spies and traitors, and even the remaining Imperial Guards. How would he know friend from foe, or patriot from traitor? He sighed. "It won't be easy, but it has to be done..."

And, at least, he wouldn't be fighting this war in the conventional sense of the term. No, he had no armies, and he was not fool enough to think he could rouse the masses to his banner like that. No, the masses were frightened, cowed, beaten into submission. They might support him in spirit, but they would keep their heads down so that they didn't feel the repercussions, should he fail.

He set his jaw firmly, determinedly, and his eyes became steely and set. He could not fail...he would not fail! He would fight this battle on Ocato's terms, using his own spies and friends to infiltrate the empire, learn Ocato's weaknesses, cause whatever unrest they could, and then...when the moment was right, they would strike, and free the empire. Yes, they would free the empire from the tyrant's grasp, and restore the people's freedoms.

The Champion rose and stretched. "It's funny," he thought, "to go from being a hero to an outlaw in such a short time. Not long ago, if I walked into the Imperial City I'd be met with warm welcomes by grateful well-wishers...and now, to get in, I have to sneak in." He was smiling ironically as he spread his bedroll.

It was a warm night, and he was glad of that, as he wouldn't be able to light a fire for fear of discovery. He settled in to sleep, but listened for a few minutes to the chirping of a few birds and insects. Then he closed his eyes, and sighed. He'd wake in a few hours, when it was dark, and then, if he was lucky, he'd get inside the waterfront district of the Imperial City before the sun rose. From there, he hoped to hook up with some of his old friends -- if they were still alive -- and try to meet some of the people who had already contacted him through his fledgling network.


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You, the RP'ers, have heard rumors of the Champion's return. For those of you who have already contacted the Champion, you know he's likely to show up in the Waterfront district soon...and, as for the rest of you, you've heard rumors, maybe leaked by spies, maybe not. You decide where you are, how you'll proceed, etc. ...


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Characters:

HolyWalrus

Name: Gauj Keijenx

Race: Nordic Vampire, could pass as a tall Breton.

Age: 113

Weight: 160 lbs

Height: 6'3

Appearance: Very slim and tall, and very, very pale. He has a Chinese Warlord-style beard that reaches down to his sternum. Fingernails are longer than most keep them at, and can easily use them as a weapon. His face has several brutal scars, all on his cheeks and brow, one cut through his lip. Has a hooked nose and squinting brown eyes. Short black hair frames his unpleasant face.

Clothes: Wears a black formal dress with a purple silk jacket on top.

Armor: When required to go into battle, which is very frequent due to the newly crowned Emperor's needs of him, he wears a simple black leather outfit with various pouches and sheathes attached to it.

Weapons: One steel longsword and a glass shortsword, both with elaborate and customized handles.

Personality: Gauj more or less has no personality. He is a killing machine for the Emperor, and only stops that roll when he needs to feed. When he is required to have a personality, he can be anywhere from pleasant to dark and cynical.

Bio: Gauj was a high-ranking member of the Crimson Scars before the Dark Brotherhood slaughtered them in their sleep, only 4 members escaping. He was one of the escapees. Ever since then he has plotted and schemed his way to the top, and has worked with Ocato to bring the Empire into the Chancellor's hands. He is one of the Emperor's trusted adviser and servant.


Zalphon

Name: Zalphon S. Broodikus

Age: 37

Race: Dunmer

six: Male

Class: Wizard (Light Armor Wizard with custom skills)

Skills: Blade, Light Armor, Conjuration, Block, Destruction, Athletics, Speechcraft

Appearance: Zalphon is an ash-colored dunmer with blood-red eyes, he always has a stench of blood and rotting flesh...His Black Hair is long and in a natural position...

Height: 6'

Weight: 150 lbs

Build: Extremely strong and intelligent, but not very agile, due to his childhood, he was very strong and intelligent, but didn't like to run, so he didn't usually...

Eye Color: Red

Armor: A full suit of Mithril Armor except for the helmet

Clothing: Exquisite shirt, pants.

Weapons: Glass Clayemore

Other: 500 gold, 2 bottles of skooma, Journeyman's Alchemy Equipment.

Bio: Born in Vvardenfell, he joined House Telvanni at age 20, and is currently a Master in House Telvanni... He attained his elven armor through...not-so pleasant means... Cruelty is not something he minds, as long as it isn't directed towards him.

Elite Birthday

Name: Sum'Ondaed
Race: Argonian
Gender: Male
Age: 28
Class: Necromancer
Faction: Heroes

Armour: None
Weapons: Staff of Reanimation
Clothing: Black Robes

Physical Description: Sum'Ondaed is a HUGE Argonian. This is a heriditary trait, and his family averages at 7'2". Ondaed himself is 7'1". Because of all the Dark Arts he has participated in, his natural skin color has turned to a sort-of black. He has spines running out the top of his head, and red eyes. The Argonian is very big as well as tall, and has a huge frame. He is very intimidating, and even more so because of his profession.

Short Bio: Growing up in the Black Marsh under a family of Shamans, Ondaed was baptized into the dark arts at an early age. He grew up, learning many ritualistic and wise ways. He had an unusual taste in Necromancy, and left the Black Marsh in search of a teacher. He found a Breton Necromancer, very old and wise, that taught him the ways of Necromancy. At the age of 23, he killed his master, and proceeded into a world.

After the take-over of Ocato, Sum'Ondaed thought he could persuade the leader to allow Necromancy. He was declined, and then declared an enemy of the Empire, fearing that the evil nature of the Necromancer would cause him to seek revenge. He was sent to the Dungeons, but never made it there. Ondaed was able to escape, and is running away from the Empire. He is now considered 'A Threat to The Emporer', and has a bounty of 10,000 Septims.

Seeking revenge (As Ocato Predicted), he is personally out to kill the Emporer.

demonsshade

Name: Shara Ranin

Age: 23

Race: Bosmer

six: Female

Weight: 115 lbs (52 kg)

Height: 5' 5''

Appearance: Short, but all Bosmers are. She has a regal look to her, and is regarded as very beautiful. She isn't well-endowed, and her raven-black long hair is mostly covered by a hat or hood. She has bright blue eyes, and looks like a very curious individual.

Clothes: Black wide shirt and wide pants (like the ones Vincente Valtieri wears). She often disguises herself as an Imperial man, due to the slight racial prejudice against Bosmer, and because her profession requires her to sometimes hide the fact she is a woman. When she wears a hat, it is generally a black beret that is just long enough to hide most of her ears.

Armor: She often doesn't wear armor, as it bogs her down.

Weapons: An elven katana. The blade has a carving of a dragon at its base, as a mark of the blacksmith who made it. It's very elegant, but deadly sharp.

Skills: She's very gifted in blades, stealth and security, but lax in most everything else. She doesn't wear armor often, or carries a shield, relying on stealth and speed to keep her safe.

Other: She often wears cloaks or robes to further hide her six/race. She dresses as a man whenever she goes out in public, and most think she is merely a man of short stature.

Personality/Character: Very playful, and often sarcastic. She takes orders easily, but will often launch them back playfully at whoever gives them to her. She is often conflicted about the orders she takes from Ocato, but obeys them.

Biography: Shara Ranin was raised in Anvil, a source of some segregation against Bosmer. At the behest of her mother, she hid the fact she was a Bosmer and fooled people into thinking she was a young Imperial girl instead whenever she left the house. She always hated Redguards and Imperials, seeing them as a source of her and her mothers problems. One day, she decided she would learn how to use a sword, and contacted a local Blademaster, who refused to train her because she was a woman. She then hid her identity and tried again a month later, when she was accepted.

She trained with him for three years, leaving her mother behind completely in Anvil. On the day of her masters death, she revealed her gender, but he revealed he had known all along, and had only decided to train her because she wouldn't give up. She returned to Anvil not long afterwards, only to find her mother had died in a tragic accident. Shocked and appalled, she fled to the Imperial City. After trying to steal food from a noble, he offered her a job working for the Chancellor. She gladly accepted, and wound up using her innate ability of stealth and her experience disguising her identity spying on the Chancellors enemies.

Soon, after proving her usefulness, she was ordered to start killing people. She was shocked, but soon got used to it, acting as an assassin for Ocato himself. At one point, her boss was switched to the noble who had recommended her in the first place. He often sent her on spy missions. Her story starts as she is stalking a Reguard by the name of Dorian in the Talos Plaza District.

Darkom95

Name: J’Tava
Race: Khajiit
Gender: Male
Age: 27
Sign: The Lady

Class: Politician
Skills: Speechcraft, Illusion, Mysticism
Allegiance: The Heroes (Coc)

Appearance: Slim and lanky, he has little need for muscle. He always keeps himself immaculately trimmed, trying to impress others. However, when alone, he slumps; dropping his fa?ade of bravado in favor of a melancholy persona.
Hair: Short tan brown fur, with large wispy tufts at the ends of his large ears
Eyes: Emerald Green

Mental: Rather untrusting; due to the nature of his profession, he is constantly trying to figure out the motives of others. The constant stress causes him frequent depression and sometimes even schizophrenia. He is always unsure of other’s motives, knowing how no one is who they seem.

Armor: None
Weapons: None
Clothing: Black finery, gold trim.
Miscellaneous: Three lockpicks, a small journal, and an amulet emblazoned with the symbol for the rebellion

History: He grew up an orphan in the castle of Senchal, carrying messages from one diplomat to another. He soon rised through the hierachy of diplomats, becoming a prominent member of Elsweyr politics. After a heated discussion concerning the current state of the empire during a meeting, he was exiled from his country by the king for his anti-Ocato ideals. He promptly joined the Champion of Cyrodiil, using his political influence to gain allies and persuade others for the upcoming struggle.

Dirk Zephyrs

Name: Annellesia
Race: Altmer
Age: Late hundred forty's.
six: Female
Weight: 160 lbs.
Height: 6'6"

Occupation/Class: Huntress. Not your easy deer slaying archer, either. Annellesia will hunt anything for the right price, and that means anything. She's a gifted and experienced spearmaiden, trained to fight with ease in both chain and leather armors. Her skill with spears is equally matched by a skill with knives. Stealthy and athletic, she is able to surprise opponents, and if that is not an option, chase them down without rest. In other words, she's a two penny hitman.

Appearance: Her face was probably beautiful, once upon a time in her early years, before she took up a profession of blood and murder. Her gold eyes are heavy, with dark bags below that have simply been for many years, her eyebrows equally heavy. A deep scar lines the bottom of her right eye, while a second is traced from her lip to her chin on the right side. The blood vessels on her nose are broken from long term alcohol abuse, and it's quite apparent that her hooked nose has been fractured and set several times. She has long, twisted curly copper hair, which once upon a time was well cared for, but is now left and brushed merely to keep it from forming dreads. She is tall and lithe, though very much more muscular than simply toned.

Personality: A broken alcoholic more than a force to be afraid of, Annellesia drinks away her past nightly. She is driven by a desire to forget her past, which tends to ostracize her from other people. Alone, tired, and drunk, she is prone to violent behavior, though this is in grand irony to her desires.

Brief History: Born in Alinor, she ran away from home due to domestic disputes including her inability to use magic. She spent several years with a lover in Chorrol, until a fire burned both her home and the woman she loved. Grief stricken, she struck out with violence at those who had mocked her, and fled from the city into the wilderness. She was not alone in the woods, however, and she was quickly enveloped by the Black Hand of the Dark Brotherhood. Abandoning a job and leaving a fellow Brother dead, she fled from Cyrodiil. With a death warrant on her head from the Brotherhood, she was on the run for over fifty years, mostly staying within the boundries of Skyrim, save for a brief stay in Vvardenfell, where an assassin eventually caught up with her. Various events led her back to Cyrodiil, where she played enough of a role to receive an Imperial pardon.

Equipment: Chain armor lined with bear fur and a pair of thick, warm, fur boots. She has a thick black scarf which is nearly always tied around her neck and face. She has a nordic silver spear and a dozen glass knives hidden across her person. She also has a small silver locket enchanted to detect people and creatures around her.

Misc. Notes: She is completely unable to use magic. This includes scrolls and enchantments that require any form of self activation.

Loyalty: Money.

Dark Fox

Name: Kale
Age: 32
Race: Redguard
six: Male
Weight: About average
Height: 6.2 feet
Appearance: He has a gotee along with buzz cut hair. He was brown colored skin with a medium sized head. He also has quite strong legs as he like to run and jump alot but no so big arms.
Clothes: Green shirt with breeches.
Armor: None
Weapons: Steel Long sword
Other: Skilled acrobatic and quite fast since he does alot of traveling. He also has gone through quite a few brawls so hes good at hand to hand but he has stronger legs than he has hands.

Personality/Character: Since he works part time as a bouncer he seems to enjoy settling matters with his fists and taking out people with force instead of talking things out peacefully.

Biography: I gues you could call Kale a professional bouncer. Not only has he worked in bars all his life but he's even bounced his way through all of tamerial. When he lived in hammerfell he had actually gone through quite a few bars throughout and soon caught the eyes of bar owners for his talents with taking care of troublemakers making him realize his true calling. Then several years later he moved to Mournhold in Morrowind where he worked as bouncer in the famous Winged Guar in the Godreach district of the capital. Then when he turned 30 he moved straight to Cyrodil where he became the second bouncer to work at the bloated float. The Bloated float of course was in need of someone like Kale due to fact that they had recently seen quite a large growth in their buissness causing them being forced to expand their floating ship on the water and quickly in need of more bouncers to help control the quickly growing out of control crowds. For the past 2 years he's always stood right next to the giant orc Graman gro-Marad. Both waiting for the next bar fight.

Your loyalty lies with (Emperor*, Champion, or Undecided): Jesus Christ?.... I don't know he's undecided.

HHS Hawks

Name: Hector
Age: 35
Race: Imperial
six: Male
Weight: 235lbs
Height: 6ft 3in
Appearance: Clean cut military type with buzzed brown hair and a fresh shaven face, Green eyes and white skin. A military build beneath his armor.
Clothes: Brown robe with leather shoes
Armor: Templar armor
Weapons: Ebony long sword with a matching shield.
Other: Talented swordsman through year’s of service in Imperial Legion. Hector Has reached the rank of colonel due to his efforts during Dagon’s attack on Cyrodiil.

Personality/Character: Loyal to the old emperor and his ways of ruling but keeps his mouth shut for time being, Waiting for his chance to de-throne the High Chancellor.

Biography: Military born, joined the Legion at 17years of age. For the next decade Hector spent years in the lands of the Dunmer, Redguard and Nordic. By this time he was a captain and was called back to Cyrodiil, when he arrived though he was met with the beginning of the Oblivion Crisis. He fought for Kavatch but was over ran. He escaped with a few men only to return later to help the eventual Champion of Cyrodiil clear the deadra. From then on he was stationed in the Imperial City where he saw the Champion and the last of emperors blood line defeat Dagon. After that day he was promoted to colonel and been serving the new self-proclaimed emperor.

God Slayer

Name: Salnin Assunurpi
Alias: Eromar Ramoran

Age: 306
Race: Dunmer
six: Male
Weight: 172lbs
Height: 6’2

Appearance: Although not quite imposing, he stands tall; his frame relatively lanky, though fit and well defined. The years have left a cold expression across his face however. The bulk of his eyes are of a dull gray color, his iris a deep, blood red, with jet black pupils. His features include a medium sized forehead, high cheek bones, and a strong, dominant jaw. Black, wavy hair extends down to the base of his neck, which he keeps slicked back and tightly cropped.

Clothes: He keeps very few clothes, often wearing the same outfit for days at a time. He’s currently wearing a loose fitting, white, long sleeve shirt, a leather vest, black pants, and leather boots.
Armor: He is not currently carrying armor, though he is adept in the use of both Heavy and Medium armors, should he be forced into combat.
Weapons: An ebony scimitar holding a frost enchantment, and an ebony dagger tucked into his right boot.

Personality: By nature he is a very quiet and calm individual, although he has a tendency to be brash and impulsive when put in a dire situation. Another oddity within him is that he is very anolytical, even when he is acting simply on impulse. When he can, he will take the time to observe a situation, and try and best calculate the different ways in approaching it, but when faced with overwhelming pressure, he acts courageous and arrogant. He is very staunch in his personal convictions, but is willing to take advice.

When he is dealing with people who he regards as foolish, or those he despises with every ounce of his person, he never shows his anger or frustration with them. Tempers may come and go, but they don't affect his ability to remain cool, and many have never seen him truly angry. While he may seem gloomy and somewhat standoffish to most passerby, he is actually a kind and thoughtful person, and is willing to help those in need, even though he rarely opens up to others.


Background: Salnin was born into the Urshilaku Tribe in the beginning centuries of the third era. From there he rose from simple tribesman to trusted Gulakhan of the tribe. One fortnight, when he was leading a group of hunters out on an excursion far away from the camp, they were accosted by a group of rogue Ashlanders. Outnumbered, they would’ve all been butchered had it not been for a passing detail of Redoran militia escorting one of their nobles. Badly injured, Salnin was taken into their care.

He stayed in the Temple in Ald-Ruhn, and surprisingly, fell in love with the female who had personally saved him. After much discussion the two decided to be wed, Salnin being formerly adopted into the house (despite some protest). Although his tribe held mixed feelings, the Ashkahn half heartedly approved. For decades he would liaison between his two families, his house and his tribe, and attempt to solidify relations, all the while being berated by both for showing disloyalty to either one.

Decades would pass, and Salnin found himself brought under the sway of the Temple, due to their outwardly positive motives, including helping the poor and sick, but mostly from pressure from his Redoran family. He formally joined, taking on his "noble" house name, and quickly rose through their ranks for his motivation to help the less fortunate. By this point in time, his relationship with the Urshilaku had completely dissolved due to conflicting beliefs, but Salnin maintained his ever questioning faith.

However, he was and had always been a warrior at heart, and after almost half a century since formerly joining, he was taken into the ranks of the Ordinators. Several decades would pass, and he would find himself tasked with the direct persecution of the Dissident Priests; a task he would question to the point of complete heresy. He soon found himself risen to the rank of High Ordinator in Mournhold, and after a century of service, he was chosen by Almalexia to become her personal servant and a trusted “hand.”

But this all eventually came to a bitter end. The Temple was on the verge of collapse after the Tribunal vanished, and then the Oblivion Crisis occurred. Salnin did what he could in Mournhold, and was eventually recalled back to Ald-Ruhn, where he watched his adopted home and family razed and destroyed. Questioning his own morality and purpose in the aftermath, Salnin threw his former life away and left Morrowind, distraught by his misplaced belief, his wrongfull persecution of the dissdents, his alienation from his own tribe, and his wife's death.

Allegiance: Neutral ATM

Wednesday

Name: Dibella.
Age: 23
Race: Imperiton.
six: Femme.
Weight: 117 lbs.
Height: 5'7
Appearance: Dibella is most noteable for her long, chocolate locks and her piercing gold hues. She boasts a lithe, slender figure with fair skin. Although uncommon to many other women across Cyrodiil, Dibella always keeps herself manicured; whether it be her nails, her toes, etc. She also famously wears only top eyeliner, complimenting her long lashes.
Clothes: She is commonly seen wearing anything from regal gowns to revealing leather combat gear.
Armor: Depends on her mood; again, she could sport anything from heavy armor to more common leather and catsuit-like outfits.
Weapons: Dibella never has a single weapon she continually uses. Her arsenal changes daily, ranging anywhere from battle axes to throwing stars.
Other: Dibella was named, obviously, after the Goddess of Love under The Lover's starsign. It's even been rumored around the land that she might even be a clone of Dibella herself; but there has yet to be solid evidence besides her beauty.
Personality/Character: Dibella has a bit of a personality disorder. She is normally sweet and caring, but if things do not go how she wants it, she can turn into a dangerous vixen. It is also unknown to many that she works with the Black Hand, and was a lover of Lucien Lachance up until his mutilation. She is trained in the art of stealth and magic, with training in bone fighting arts. Sweet and innocent, lethal and cunning.
Biography: Being worked on.
Your loyalty lies with (Emperor*, Champion, or Undecided): Myself.


ringman

Name: Marcus Plarius

Race : Nord

Age: 26

Eyes: gray

skills: long blade, destruction, unarmored, short blade

items: black robe, daedric dagger, health potions

Description: Tall, very pale, purple glowing eyes and muscular. Long black hair, broad shouldered, very smart and mysterious and doesn’t take any crap; he is very clam even in the worst moments

Bio: Marcus was in the imperial guard when he started to think Ocato was a tyrant and started to rebel against him. They had him executed with his family and thrown into the sewers. Before he was killed, he swore revenge. His body was found by a necromancer and reanimated. The necromancer cast a spell to return his memory and keep him alive. Marcus thanked him and set out to plan his revenge when he heard the champion was in Cyrodiil; he knew he needed his help.


Fox 54321

Name: J’Dato

Age: 23

Race Kharjit

six: Male

Class: Thief

Skills: Acrobatics/ Light armour/ Marksman / Mercantile/ Security/ Sneak/ Speech craft.

Appearance: He looks like a normal Kharjit with a bandanna round his hair he also has a tattoo of a snake with 3 coins in its mouth.

Height: Average

Weight: Average

Build: He is very very very strong but is an alcoholic.

Eye colour : Blue

Clothing: Sack cloth pants

Weapons: None yet.

Other: Pick lock

Bio: He was born in Leyawin and at the age of 7 started to learn the arts of the thief he was put in jail when caught joy riding a horse.



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Rules:

Rules

* No ubering/overpowering
* No character controlling
* No OOC's without an IC unless it is definitely necessary
* No one-liners
* No assassins who just go around killing things
* If you want to join now that the RP is underway, please PM me and we'll get you set up
* Try your best to write good English
* Violence is fine and I don't mind gore but please be realistic
* Cursing is fine but don't go overboard
* Romance is fine but please don't go describing the six
* My word is law
* If you want to do something that affects the story PM me
* Be nice to each other
* Try to be creative
* Most importantly have fun!


If there is anything I have missed please say so.

Other information about the RP
The Champion is going to show up where he thinks it's safe, so he'll scout the area first. Best way to get in touch with him is to act normally (don't lay in wait for him), and try to contact those who know him.
Ocato is easier to get in touch with, although you probably won't get a direct audience; to be in touch with one of his representatives, go to the palace and state your business.
For now at least, much of the action will revolve around the waterfront...so, regardless of what side you're on, your character might want to head that way.

Good luck and have fun!!

Zalphon waits at the waterfront, in the abandoned house... He has an irritated look on his face, but lies back against the wall. When will this "champion" come, he is supposedly the savior of Tamriel, pfft, but he can't even sneak back into the Imperial City, pathetic... Zalphon then sees a rat come in, and casts a spell to scorch it. He then sighs. This is a waste of time, but, I do have plans to help him, for now I help him, later I will take control of this place, but, for now I have to help him...

OOC: Italics mean thoughts, and I pray we dont have any "telepaths" with us, because that would ruin my character, because he is thinking a lot...about some not-so-good things...

J'Tava was restless. He was not used to such accomadations, and the waterfront district stunk worse than the streets of Senchal.

'When will he arrive? J'Tava does not know why he wanted to meet us here of all places, right under Ocato's nose. He could become prey at any time, and me with him!' The Khajiit was certain his "influences" could keep him out of prison, but his career would be over.

He sighed, shifted his position on the tree he was leaning against, and closed his emerald eyes. 'J'Tava knew when he signed up this job would not be easy. He had not been warned, however, that it would require him to lay among beggars!'

A few moments later, J'Tava's sensitive nose felt that another dirty scoundrel had passed by him. He wanted to get up and leave, but that would alert the smelly one that he was not sleeping, and he would undoubtedly ask him for money. He decided that the next time he came to the city he would not wear one of his finer outfits.

Zalphon left the abandoned house, and seen a khajiit, he asked coldly "What are you doing here, khajiit?" Oh I wish I was back in Morrowind back in Sadrith Mora, practicing necromancery, with these beasts... Curse the lack of slavery... He watched the khajiit's every move... I hate these these beasts, I really do, as much as I hate the twin lamps, I almost wish they still existed, that'd mean there would still be slavery...

Edit: OOC: Please don't be offended by my character's attitude, he is from Morrowind, where racism towards khajiit and argonians is as common if not more common than real life.

Gauj Keijenx slid into the Emperor's room. Ocato lay slumbering in his bed.

"So powerful, yet I could slit your throat right now if I wanted too. Oh Ocato, if only you would accept my Gift. It will mean your downfall if you don't. But no. You are just going to lie there snoring."

Gauj stalked out of the room and walked unseen in the shadows back to his quarters.

The fine ivory/gold coffin looked very comfortable. Gauj slid into it and shut the lid.

Blood-drenched nightmares with swirling rainbow-colored demons harassing him with fiery hot talons awaited him.

You put Zalphon's character as mine.

The Altmer at the bar grimaced, handling her bottle of firewater with extreme delicateness. Well, as much delicateness as a troll like her could manage. She must not have seen a pool of water in days, with how matted and greasy her hair was. And the scars on her face and arms... If anything, it was rather clear that she was not a pleasant person. Someone must have been irritated to have made those scratches, and how she handled herself wasn't exactly pleasant. The bartender sighed to himself. She'd become a regular customer in the last few weeks, and that was bad for business. Bad in the sense that she never, ever paid for the chairs. And then last night she broke a bottle over a man's head... He'd gone through two street thugs trying to get rid of her. That, of course, was why she was now the only person at the bar who was sitting.

And for some reason, those fights were why she kept coming back. She didn't want to think like that, but from the bottom of the bottle, it seemed like a very clear idea. And, unfortunately, the only one that made much sense. The liquor here was lousy, the innkeeper hated her, and every patron in the room would be happy if she dropped off the face of the earth. Plus, yesterday she flattened one of Ocato's messenger's, which cost her about a week's pay... But at least soon she'd be free of his clutches. The messenger, once he had recovered, had given some very interesting information. The Champion was coming here. She didn't understand people like him. People that thought sneaking actually sounded less quiet than a stampede of elephants. And while it does, technically, as far as your enemies are concerned, you may as well have rallied an army and come with a thousand trumpets. Sneaking, in the end, provided you with an entrance filled with more enemies than a locked gate and a rampart of archers. At least then you knew exactly who was going to kill you.

Now, of course, came the memories. Followed by another bottle. And then more memories.

The Altmer traced her finger across her face, caressing the scars that adorned it with surprising care. She did this again a few times, but eventually caught herself with a shake of her head, and instead lifted the second bottle of firewater to her mouth. She pulled the bottle away with a gag and a cough, sputtering uncharacteristically from the harshness of the liquor. She stood, covering her eyes with one hand and turned on her heels, storming out the door. A distinct sob was heard just before the doors slammed back shut. The inkeeper didn't care that she hadn't paid. In fact, he was rather happy to see the end of her for the night. And hopefully, forever.

She looked at her gold face in the reflection of a fountain. It was dark, of course, so reflection was a term used rather loosely--it was more like a shadow. She had stopped crying; she'd stopped only a little while after storming out of the Feed Bag, but the memory still bit her. Marie. The image of the Breton woman conjured itself, blurred by time and alcohol abuse. What color were her eyes? How did her hair curl about her face? How soft were her lips? How can I save myself? The most beautiful face she'd ever known had been erased by her own hands. She choked back another sob, using both hands to pull her hair out of her face. Bracing herself, she positioned her mouth over the edge of the water, trying her damndest to keep from crying now that her stomach felt like it was forcing its way back up her throat.

"Huargh!"

"What are you doing here, Khajiit?"

J'Tava was incredibly disappointed. 'The smelly one talks.'

The elegantly dressed Khajiit never bothered to open his eyes. If the man attacked him here, he would be swarmed by guards in a moment. And as much as J'Tava hated them, Ocato's dogs had their uses.

He sighed "The prey should leave. I am not the one he wishes to speak to; clearly he wants a fearly pup to feed his ego." The Khajiit dismissed the smelly one with a flick of his tail.

'When will he arrive? J'Tava is told to meet him here now, but what does big Champion do? He leaves me with these rats...'

OOC: Nothing is personal in an RP.

Zalphon responds arrogantly "You best not speak to me like that, beast...I hail from Morrowind, a House Telvanni Master. Watch your tongue, before I burn it off with a single spell..."
I hate these filthy n'wahs! They disgust me, filthy beasts belong in slave bracers...I am so irritated with this champion...Making me wait here with these, disgusting, filthy, maggots-bred, abominations!
Zalphon glares at the argonian and watches the imperial guards and thinks Hardly worthy of being called guards when compared to ordinators

The bile burned at her throat as the Altmer proceeded to dry heave for the fifteenth time. Her chest was tight, and her throat was well past threatening to close up. While on a normal day it's likely she would have simply stumbled home and hopefull made it past the door before passing out, she remembered that she actually did have a job to do. She stood, head wobbling to the side a little, then whipping back to wobble on the other side before she finally managed to balance the newfound weight of her own skull. She took a halfstep forwards, shambling right, hoping she could reach a wall and use it to keep from falling over her own feet, which looked gigantic in her humungous boots--though that may have merely been a hallucination caused by her face's imminent proximity with her toes.

Eventually, she came upon a passerby, a young lady in a fine dress and her male escort of equally fine attire. Greeting them as good friends and giving them great hugs, she, in a quite friendly manner, inquired the location of "The Floating Bloat." They obviously misheard her, and, like good, normal people do when quite startled, booked it in the opposite direction, the woman hitching up her dress so she could run more properly. She assumed that was the right direction, and started off with a hustle. Buildings blurred past in double vision, tunnelling away into the night sky as she stumbled, fell, staggered, puked, trotted, swaggered, and walked her way across the city. It really was quite sobering, she realized. Or at least, it would have been if she hadn't been stopping at every tavern on the way to the Waterfront.

She had taken the roundabout, zig-zagged way--the one that takes hours--but eventually she reached the Waterfront, even if her path had doubled back into the Merchant's Inn and the Tiber Septim Hotel a few times. The sweet wind of the night caressed her, blowing briefly across Lake Rumare. The moon was out tonight, though not in full at all, merely a crescent streak in the sky. The torchlight dimmed out in this district of the city, which meant it was a den of scum and villainy for any would be pickpocket, hoodwink, mugger, Khajiit, thief, murderer, and thug. She passed a rather heated-looking scene with a Dunmer and a Khajiit, and instead headed for the Bloated Float, knowing that any hero worth his salt first shows up at the tavern and has a few drinks, trying to keep his head down for a while until he's gotten a few friends.

Finally, he's gone into his house.

Shara could hardly hide her relief. Dorian had been a most troublesome subject to deal with, not surprisingly, as he had managed to evade most of the other skilled assassins that Ocato sent after him. He was a rather older Redguard, and she could see his arrogant attitude from how he treated the people he met on the streets.

The only problem now was keeping out of sight. Despite the fact it was night, Dorian's house was quite near the elegant center of the Talos Plaza District.

Rich Redguard bastard. It's people like you who let my mother die. She spat on the ground. She rarely got so worked up over her contracts, she had stopped caring about who she was ordered to kill long ago. But lately...she just couldn't feel at ease. She had hear rumors of The Champion of Cyrodiil returning. She hardly believed it, but it disturbed her. If he was successful in bringing down Ocato, she would be out of a job.

She hated not having a job.

Silently, the small Bosmer lady slipped in through a window, narrowly avoiding a passing guardsmen. She was working for Ocato, sure, but she was supposed to not arouse suspicion. Her mission was to poison Dorian, not to kill him directly. The house was lavishly adorned, with multitudes of artifacts and fancy portraits decorating the house.

Too ostentatious...

But then again, she lived in a high class manor as well, so she couldn't talk. Lord Umbacano II was quite a frivolous individual, letting his personal spy live with him.

She slipped upstairs, hardly letting the door so much as creak. Dorian was quite the alert person, and was well trained in hand to hand combat. Hopefully, she wouldn't have to fight him...but she would if she must.

She could hear humming then, Dorian was likely preparing for sleep. A nord woman was standing guard right outside of his quarters.

Damn it! I'm going to kill him directly after all.

Careful to stick to the shadows, Shara climbed out a window to her left. With all luck, she could climb around the outside and enter Dorians room from a window, kill him quickly within, and escape. She was a fair distance above the ground, but focused on her goal. She was too far up for anyone to see her, cloaked in the darkness as she was. It was unnerving, climbing around, falling wouldn't likely kill her, but it would be a fair deal suspicious.

Her fortunes smiled upon her that night, however, and she made it around without incident. The rich pig, Dorian, was fast asleep when she climbed through the window into his personal quarters.

There you are, my beauty...

She silently pulled out a simple steel dagger. It wasn't very ornate, but it would accomplish things. Creeping over to the bedside, she reversed grip on the dagger and brought it down on the sleeping mans throat...

But she stopped.

Seeing the man sleeping there, so soundly and peacefully, unnerved her. Could she kill him? Why did she have to kill him? What did he ever do wrong? Was he evil? Was what he did wrong? Was she doing wrong?

The Redguard snapped his eyes open, immediately noticing her.

"Sylvia!" The dagger flashed down, taking out the rich mans throat, spraying blood over the walls, the bed and Rayne's clothes. It was purely instinctual, and so was the jump out the window. Rayne hardly registered things as she dived out, just out of reach from the female Nord bodyguard who had rushed into the room. It was a quick fall, and Rayne rolled to lose momentum. She dashed off to the sewers, where she hoped to find a way back to Umbacano's manor, where she could dispose of the evidence.

Her escape was flawless, even through the assassination wasn't. But she couldn't help but think to herself the same questions. Did he truly deserve to die? Was she doing the right thing? Why did her heart feel so heavy?

After a brief run through the sewers, she climbed a hidden ladder into the basemant of Umbacano manor, where an Imperial bodyguard was waiting for her.

"Got the job done finally, eh, girly?" The Imperial laughed. "You hardly looked like a woman to me, with those clothes and that body an' all." Again a laugh.

"Watch your tongue, or I'll cut it out, fool." Shara rushed past. Once inside her room, she packed the bloody clothes and the dagger away, calling for a servant to burn it all.

Once she was finally alone, she crawled onto her large bed, thinking to herself.

Why did she hesitate? What happened? It would have been so easy if only she hadn't...

She climbed into her sheets slowly, crying softly. She was once again so confused, so vulnerable, like she used to be...

And she hated it.

OOC: Sorry for the long post. I got kinda in to writing this and didn't really notice the length.

*blush* oopsies, let me take care of that

His eyes, steely gray in the darkness, surveyed the waterfront. "Not many guards," he thought. "Good." He drew his hood a little lower, and walked with purpose. In any other part of the city, he'd look suspicious; but here, one tended to look suspicious if one did not dress and act like a thug.

He step was quick, and he tried not to notice the awful stench. Ocato had done little to clean the waterfront up -- at least, the area itself. As for the people...well, those who sided with him had been left untouched. The rest had disappeared of their own volition, or disappeared at Ocato's hands.

He was headed for the Bloated Float Inn. Not that he planned to do much drinking. No, he'd never been much of a drinker...he preferred to face life sober, even at its worst. But the Bloated Float had the only tavern on the Waterfront, and so was frequented by everyone. In it is own way, it was the hub of culture for this small, smelly, and uncultured area of the city. To be sure, it was a hub of peculiar, criminal culture, but of culture all the same. Pirates from afar, thieves from across the empire, outlaws and brigands of every sort found their way here. But, for all the riffraff, it was the perfect place for people like him to meet up: well known and generally left alone by Ocato and the Militia.

As he walked, the Champion's eye noted an interesting sight...a well dressed Khajiit and a Dumner, standing near a tree and seemingly arguing over something. The fact that a well dressed person was standing around the waterfront late at night was suspicious enough, but these two both seemed somehow to be waiting. The Champion sighed. He recognized one of them, the Khajiit, even in the darkness; J'Tava was his name. And the other? He wasn't sure. But one, and probably both, were waiting for him. "And a fine way to draw attention to themselves," he thought. "arguing like that..."

He let his footfalls ring unusually loudly on the cobblestone to catch their attention, but moved on without hesitating. If they were waiting for him, they would follow; if not, no harm done.

At last he arrived at the Bloated Float. It had changed some, in the year or so since he'd been there. For one thing, business must have gotten a lot better, because now not only were there tables inside, but the deck had been converted into an open air pub. It was fairly late, so most of the light drinkers were gone; for the most part, all that was left were the regulars. Despite only about half of the tables being filled, the Champion took a seat on the deck. It would probably smell worse here, but his route of escape was quicker: he could always jump overboard if necessary.

He ordered a drink from an uninterested and not terribly friendly barmaid, and sat, surveying the crowd. He let his hood slip back, shrugged his cape off his shoulders, but moved back, out of the torchlight. He wanted to be able to be visible quickly, and invisible just as quickly. This way, he could move forward, out of the shadow, if he wanted someone to recognize him, and backwards, into the shadow to be obscure again.

The girl returned with his drink, and he took it. She hardly glanced at him, and he could tell that she was tired and overworked. Despite her lack of friendly service, he added a generous tip to his payment; then, he turned his attention back to the crowd.

"You best not speak to me like that, beast...I hail from Morrowind, a House Telvanni Master. Watch your tongue, before I burn it off with a single spell..."

J'Tava chuckled softly. He took his first look at the "Telvanni". 'As expected, only the gray skins would try to show my claws.'

"J'Tava fears not the Telvanni prey. The Houses have always tried our patience, as the smelly one does now. It would be the error of the prey to attack J'Tava."

'This one does not take the hint!'

J'Tava's eyes were drawn from the Telvanni to an obscure, hooded figure making abnormally loud steps. 'There is the one!'

The Khajiit politician promptly began walking away from the Dunmer, not waiting for another threat. He followed the figure down the cobblestone street of the Imperial dock, towards the brightly lit Bloated Float. 'So he wants to meet J'Tava in this filth tavern. This is fine by J'Tava, but he would rather the next time be less...obnoxious.'

Hector made his way towards the inn where the champion was supposed to be on this night. You would have figured there to be more guards due to the rumors but less guard's was better for Hector. He couldn't risk being recognized in this part of the city on this night. He had his brown robe on and his hood pulled down as he opened the door and looked for a place to seat. He noticed some people on his way in and also a few robed individuals inside. Hector had his hand on his sword thinking maybe one or two of the robed figures could possibly be an assassin sent by Ocato to put down those against his rule. He walked past one of the robed men sitting close to the door and made his way to a corner and leaned against it. He was paranoid now, not wanting to be caught off guard.

Ever since the death of Uriel septim the Bloated float has grown by leaps and bounds in size. It had gone from a tiny little boat on the edge of the waterfront district to a large ship that roughly the size of the average piarte ship maybe even bigger. There was no doubt that the bloated float would get so big that it would no longer be an actual working ship and would just turn into a giant bar sitting on the water. But with the bigger ship would come more people. And with more people there would of course be more drunks and as you know drunks always lead to violence. But with these bar fights there was always one man and one orc who stood in the line of complete chaos. Who stood in the line of someone going crazy and setting fire to the bar. And finally stood in the line of Ormil the bloated floats high elf owner getting a dagger shoved into his spine. Their names was Kale the redguard and Graman gro-Marad the orc.

Kale stood in the corner of the room watching for any trouble makers. He envyed them as they took a sip out of their large mugs. He licked his lips wishing he could have a taste but sadly Ormil didn't allow bouncers to drink on the job. All he could do was watch as they emptyed their classes only to refill it full of mead once more.

"Slow night huh", An orc said as he walked up to stand right next to Kale.

"Nah I just think it's kinda early. I'm sure any of these guys are going to crack any moment." Kale replied.

"As you can see quite a few of them are taking in more mead then they usually do.", Kale then added.

"Ah yes I see now.....", said the orc now staring at the bottles that seemed to be piling up on the tables. He started to notice that everyone seemed alot more tense lately. Kale nor the orc knew why, ever since Ocato took charge people had started to feel uneasy about things. As if the empire was going to crumble under the high elfs rule. Even some of the guards who walked in described seeing a large increase of crimes throughout the city. And Ocato really hadn't done alot to help stabalize the empires economy either, And everyone's nerves had pretty much gone to hell. But now the duo stood together in the corner looking around for what seemed like another 10 minutes before a wood elf rose from his chair and began to wobble around the bar knocking over chairs and tables in his path.

"Finally some action. You stay Marad while I go take care of this guy over here.", Kale said now moving from the corner and approaching the wood elf.

"Exscuse me wood elf but i think you've had a few to many. I'm afraid im gonna have to ask you to leave", Kale said to the elf as he tripped over a chair and fell to the ground.

"IT THINK YOU'VE HAD A FEW TO MANY!!! You reguards are all the same all bone and no muscle.", yelled the wood elf.

"Okay that's it lets go....", Kale replied to the elf's insult.

"Put me down!!!! I'll kill every last one of you here.", As kale heard this spit out of the mouth of the wood elf he took his fist and smashed it right into his face, breaking his nose.

"Okay then if that's how you wanna do things I want you to come outside with me please.", Kale said as he restled the elf to is feet. He then shove the elf through the door and into the outside world.

"Let me go you filithy layabout." Kale then puched him in the face again.

"Ow!", Kale then pushed the wood elf down and kicked right in the chest leaving a bruise right on his rib. And then Kale grabed his leg and lifted it up then put his foot right in the middle of it and snapped it in half breaking his leg. He guessed he may have gone a little overboard but the wood elf had threatned him.

OOC: I wat'd. Aren't there like, four of us in the Bloated Float right now? I know I am, and so is the Champion of Cyrodiil, and then there was J'Tarva, and Hector, too.

OOC: Dark Fox, please check your PM/remove any mention of attacking the ship. Thanks!
Dirk and others on the Bloated Float, the boat isn't going to be attacked or sunk or anything like that, for reasons specific to the storyline. Until that piece is gone, please ignore it.

IC:
Ocato rose. He had been woken earlier by the sensation that someone was in his room. He had seen Gauj Keijenx standing there through lowered lashes, and he had seen his sneer of contempt by the moonlight. He'd stayed motionless, waiting for the other man to disappear. Now that he was gone, the Emperor rose.

He frowned. Keijenx was a good killer, and a good adviser...but, while Ocato relied on the man's advice and abilities, he did not delude himself into thinking that his loyalties were a given. Like so many other of his "loyal friends", Keijenx sided with Ocato because he was a good, efficient and powerful Emperor. A man like Gauj Keijenx could probably kill Ocato easily enough, but that would be of no benefit for him. He was not the sort of man to rule an empire; and what emperor would trust the man who assassinated the previous emperor? No, he was well taken care of as Ocato's pawn, and not likely to do better in any other circumstance, provided that Ocato remained the powerful figure that he was.

Ocato sighed. The difficulties of ruling an Empire and controlling men like Gauj Keijenx were many and complex. So too were the difficulties of destroying a man like the Champion. The Emperor frowned. He wondered how the Champion's entrance into the Imperial City had gone. Oh, he knew well enough about the man's presence, through his network of spies and informants. It would be easy enough, he supposed, to kill his enemy now. But why make him a martyr while his network of traitors remained? No, no, it would be much wiser to wait until he knew more about the Champion's allies, and then, when he had uncovered the traitors in his empire, destroy them all.

So the Champion could go about his business unhindered for now -- indeed, the Militia had been strictly ordered to avoid interfering, for the time being at least. Ocato would wait, patiently biding his time...and then, when the moment was right, he would strike, and destroy his enemies once and for all.

She never actually noticed the Champion enter, mostly because she was busy drinking and watching a ruckus between a Redguard and a Bosmer. She wasn't too busy thinking--by now her skull was much too heavy to allow thinking, but she did manage to remember that her current orders forbade her to fight anyone. What she did need, however, was a smoke, and maybe a little fresh air. She staggered away from the bar in a very noticeable manner, considering she was probably, at this point, the drunkest individual in the entire place. Thank goodness the Redguard was occupied, leaving only the orc. She stumbled past him towards the exit, leaving without much of a fuss other than garunteeing the bouncer she wasn't returning--a promise she would most certainly break--and exited onto the upper deck of the ship. A quick scramble through her pockets later, she'd procured a pipe and a number of dried flowers. Looking at the flowers in her hand, she cursed, returned them to her pockets, and began rifling through once more. A minute later, and she'd procured a number of dry tobacco leaves. She didn't pack the pipe relatively well, but it smoked, and that was enough for her.

She sat idly, completely unaware that the table was already occupied by a single visitor. She noted his presence with a shrug.

"Hullo there..." the Altmer said, too drunk to realize that spying did not include talking to your mark. She did take care not to breathe smoke in his face, at least.

The strange thing was, he seemed very familiar--she may have met the man before, but she couldn't place where. The memory had been replaced in a blur of smoke and blood.

OOC: Can we get a description of what the champion looks like? It makes bumping into him a little difficult, if I can't fully explain who it is I'm talking to. (And yes, I do mean to say that my character is meeting the champion.) Apologies on the shorter post, writing about being drunk gets old really fast, even if it's fun at first.

Shara couldn't sleep. The image at cutting out Dorian's throat had left a lasting impression in the Bosmer's mind. She had killed people before. She wasn't unfamiliar with the art of it, but she just felt so...uneasy. Sure, she never was a cold blooded killer, and more than once she had visited a victim's grave...but she was just utterly shocked at what she had to do.

She had gone in without hesitation, but didn't kill him immediately. Who would ever do that? A real assassin wouldn't care who he killed, or what he had to do to finish the job.

Shara needed a drink. Hopefully she could blur the images of Dorian's dying spasms, of the blood soaking the walls, and of the terror on his face as she brought down the dagger.

Stumbling out of Umbacano's manor house. She had just killed someone, so running around at night wasn't a brilliant idea, especially since it was possible that the Nord had seen her face. With all luck, she could keep hidden as long as the Nord thought Shara was a man, as she had been disguised at the time.

The Bosmer silently walked down the streets towards the more rowdy sections of the Imperial City. The girl passed through the Arboretum, heading towards the Waterfront, probably the most disgusting place in all of the city. It had been a while since she had gone out into the open without being dressed as a man, and though it was refreshing, it was also unsettling.

She hurried towards The Bloated Float, trying to keep out of sight as much as possible. She didn't want anybody to see her, despite the fact that most of them would just see her as an unfamiliar face.

"Ey, Lady. 'Ow bout a good time, eh?" Off to Shara's right a begger, obviously drunk and very dirty, approached her.

Gross bastard.

Drawing her katana, she thrust it at the poor man, barely missing his face. He took the hint and stumbled off, raving about mad women invading the city. Shara couldn't stand the dirty fools who populated the streets in this part of the Imperial City. It also made her wonder...why was she here? A drink, sure, but this was the most rough area around, full of thieves and pirates.

Approaching The Bloated Float, she sheathed her katana, walking inside with an air of superiority. After all, she was probably the only noble-woman in the place.

But why would a noble woman be here? Shara immediately dropped the facade. After all, drinking in obscurity was a better way of doing things, especially in the mental state she was in.

She sat at a table not far from where a drunken, smoking woman was (there was also a man in the shadows sitting in one of the chairs, but Shara hardly paid any attention to him), she called to a barmaid.

"Get me some ale! I have things to forget!" She could see an amused orcish bouncer glance at her, and the barmaid quickly brought her the drink.

Finally settling in, Shara prepared herself for a night of drinking, possibly the first of many, and she was sure she'd wind up sleeping in the gutter. Some noble woman. Some assassin.

OOC: Okay last post fixed.

Kale re-entered the bloated float after forcing the Bosmer to rot on the ground with a broken leg. And during his abscence he had missed quite alot, it seemed that just about everyone was here, and the party was starting to get out of control. Even his boss Ormil had come out of his private chambers on the ship, and was sitting at a large table shoving alcohol down his throat while a bunch of Imperial guards shouted "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!".

While the partying went on Kale plotted down on a chair and grabbed a bottle of Beer. He figured if Ormil was chugging beer down his throat, he wouldn't mind if Kale started drinking a little on the job. He hadn't had a drink in about 2 weeks and it would be nice not to be sober for once. He popped open a bottle and headed over to a table and sank down in a chair, the room had gotten quite rowdy and it seemed like there was sure to be a bar fight any moment now. Even Ormil had ripped off his shirt and was now running around the bar screaming and jumping on top of peoples tables, and the Barmaid had already pulled out her club in case people started trying to attack her. This was obviolusly a crowd like none the bloated float had ever seen before.

Zalphon seen a man enter the tavern, and decided to see who...

If this champion makes me wait any longer, well, he will feel the wrath of a necromancer! And this Khajiit, J'dato, I am about ready to poison him with a spell! Mannimarco, I pray you hear my thoughts, destroy these foul beasts... It is ashame this, "champion" slew him in his mortal form. The man, forgot, that back about thirty years ago, Mannimarco was made immortal, and a god... Hannible Travern was a fool to face him, and now he is dead. I need to focus on current matters though, Mannimarco is "in hiding" for now, and Ocato, is getting on my nerves, for now this "champion" can prove useful, then I will slit his throat in his sleep, and make him my slave, forever... I hope Mannimarco reveals himself, for we need a true hero in these dark times, we need a king...a worm king...

When Zalphon entered the inn, he seen his irritating "friend", J'dato, and a hooded man, the champion possibly? Zalphon decided to walk over to the man and sat down. He said to the hooded man "What is your name?"

I pray this man is the one I seek, I hate this filthy city, and miss my home, Sadrith Mora, but, I must get rid of this fool, the Arch-Magister commands it. I wish Ocato would find the end of a sharp blade of a Morag Tong, but, this is the filthy providence, Cyrodiil, where they have rogue Morag Tong called, Dark Brotherhood. Oh well, soon Ocato's corpse will find his way into my trophy room...

The Champion's steely eyes surveyed the newcomer for several seconds. Ahh, this was the one he'd seen with J'Tava. Then, he had to fight the impulse to wrinkle his nose at the onslaught of smell that the Dumner brought with him.

"A necromancer," he thought. "At least, he smells like one." It was the odor of decayed flesh, as from someone who worked with corpses too much.

The Champion's stern face was still masked in shadow, so he moved into the torchlight a little. He wasn't worried about the Altmer woman, the one who'd taken a seat at his table, recognizing him. She was too drunk to be a real problem, and perhaps to drunk to even place him.

Now the torchlight illuminated his upper body. He was a fairish looking man, with average features and a handful of scars. He was probably a Breton or an Imperial, but it was hard to say for certain in only the meager light of the torch. His eyes were the most recognizable feature of his appearance, though; they were gray in color, and extremely alert. They were intelligent eyes, eyes that didn't miss much; and they seemed to change hue, growing lighter and darker at times with his mood. Now, they were a placid steel gray. His hair was short and dark, but beginning to gray in a places. His skin at one point in his life had been fine, but years of battle and cares had worn, marked and creased it until it was rather rugged and leathery. He looked as if he might be a man in his late forties or early fifties, but that might only have been the effects of premature aging. His physique and posture told of his warrior days, even now as he tried to sit here nonchalantly. All in all, he could pass as any ex-soldier or sword-for-hire, except, perhaps, for his eyes; they alone betrayed the quickness of mind and refinement of a learned man, a scholar and mage as well as warrior.

"What is your name?" the other man asked him.

"I am called many things by many people," he answered. "Who are you?"

J'Tava entered the tavern as casually as his fine dress would allow. He sat down next to the bar, watching the Champion out of the corner of his eye. 'Who are the elves that approach him?'

J'Tava had no great skill with any kind of combat, but should the Champion need him, he would willingly interfere. The Redguard that had recently ejected the drunken Bosmer re-entered the tavern, walking past J'Tava and sitting at one of the many tables.

The Khajiit's gaze returned to the Champion, the steely eyed man had answered the Telvanni who had previously threatened him. 'J'Tava is liking this one less by the moment. And the golden skin, what purpose is his?'

The politician would wait, for now. Surely the Champion had seen him, and would speak to him when the time was right. 'This one's trust lies with you and only you, Champion. You have not failed J'Tava since he came to you, moons ago.'


OOC: EDIT- Agh, a one liner! Zalphon, please refrain from that. I believe it is against the rules.

The name is...Zalphon...now tell me yours...