The Elder Scrolls: Voice of the Sky (IC)

[Rtron]

Gorzath blacked out for a few moments. When he awoke, he found that the Praetorian was gone, and everyone was leaving. With a groan he caught up with Cub, exchanging brief greetings with the guard, and followed him to Zaveed. The orc Cub was carrying appeared to be unconscious, but that was most likely from exhaustion of riding a dragon, and being thrown about. Hearing the fight comment, he grinned. "Excluding the giant dragon, the Praetorian, and pretty much all of Tamriel? Yes, I'd say you do." He glanced around. "Now. Where did Arbus wander off to? I need to deposit this claw to him, and then I can get out of this armor. Light as a feather, yet for some reason it still feels wonderful to move without it on." He commented.

He glanced around, finding Marassa. Though she appeared to be fine, he was still slightly concerned. After all, she did fly off a dragon, going who knows how fast, into a wall, with a crazy mage throwing spells galore at her. Not exactly a healthy situation to be in. So, he walked over to have a quick little chat to make sure nothing was broken. And to maybe dissuade her if she brought up the, 'I owe you' thing again. Walking over, "Are you okay? It was quite the nasty bump you took to the head back there." Then he noticed the dagger that was kept within easy reach. "Still don't trust us? I'm not surprised, given the circumstances." He said, chuckling.

[Silver Fox]

Kyra sighed as she had watched the two... Apparently spell or poison bound furless creatures wander off to battle. Her sense of caring made her follow them, wanting to make sure their faces weren't eaten by a bear or something. That would be very bad... Of course by the way they are acting, they might just fall and face plant onto a rock.. Or even fall into a river and drown. Perhaps she was over thinking, but she didn't know what to expect with this poison. Seeing that the female realized that the danger had passed, she sighed in relief, though soon saw the orc wander off to haul up another orc. This one seemed female, at least she thought so. As the Orc ran off after the rest of the group, the white Khajiit hesitantly followed, unsure what to do or think. She did keep a eye out for any survivors, not wanting to leave anyone behind.

As she saw the Nord she had been following, congratulating some of the other Misfits, she rather hid behind a more larger person, she was tall, but she was good at somewhat hiding. Of course, her fur did stand out compared to the rest of the people, but that's what armor was for right? Carefully, she followed the others into a Dwemer ruin they call New Atmora. Her eyes scanned the area carefully, her ears twitching as the others conversed. As they reached the room with a fireplace, she glanced at the other Khajiit, a male she believed, lounging on the couch much like a cat. Or at least, that is how Rognark would describe it.

Finding the warmth of the fire comforting, she decided to strip her armor, not wanting to be utterly cooked so she only wore a raggy green shirt with raggy brown trousers. She placed her armor, weapons, and bag beside her on the floor as she sat down on the floor by the fireplace. Her fluffy tail flicking from side to side as her blue gaze stared at the flames thoughtfully. She never enjoyed the sight of flames, it reminded her of her mother. Still, they made her think, and kept her warm when her fur and blankets were not enough.

[OlNoSoul]

Sevari had rose from his seat a few moments after Marassa and the others had left the disheveled hut to wherever they were going next. The Companions talked of some refuge and Sevari was sure they weren't all going back to Jorrvaskr. Even so, he rose to his feet, grunting as the soreness had finally revealed itself to his muscles. Fighting multiple men without breaks and facing down a dragon was something that would surely exhaust any man or mer. He made a slow pace as he followed the others along, reflecting a small bit on his circumstances and his place here, with these people. As they entered the vast Dwemer ruin, Sevari took a chance to observe his surroundings, it looked comfortable, at least, as comfortable as thousand year old ruins could be. The architecture of the Dwemer was something to be admired, they were masters of technology and far beyond any other culture of the time. The Nords and their ancestors, the Nedes, were known for building sprawling underground settlements to shelter from the cold but the Dwemer could do it the best, they called the underground home, tamed the mountains and mastered steam. They were an ingenious people, but they had met an end nonetheless.

When the group had finally made it to their beds Sevari chose his and wasted no time in settling in. He relieved himself of his robes, keeping his trousers as he removed the pieces of boiled leather that kept snug under the cloth before replacing his tunic. The leather had served him well, scars criss-crossed the brown hardened hide, the most recent being the puncture hole of an arrow and the gnarly indent of a greatsword from a night in Windhelm and a day in a cave, respectively. Sevari rolled his shoulder and performed all manner of stretches to keep nimble. Even during lulls in the fighting one must make sure he is ready when the battle starts once more. After going about his routine Sevari replaced the twin daggers at his side, leaving the Imperial sword on the bed as he lay down. He gazed up at the ceiling and sighed, the days he had spent with this group were truly some of the most eventful. He could say he even enjoyed it but he still tried to keep himself centered on the one reason he was still here- the Emperor. Sevari may have been slipping away from what he was in the past but he couldn't change the reason he was following Zaveed and the others, no matter how much he was starting to change as a person. His train of thoughts was cut short as the sound of heavy feet on stone floors graduated from echo to loud pounding. It was apparently some Orc with another draped over his shoulder. His head slowly sank back to his own business. It seemed his time with this bunch would be a unique time indeed.

[Dervish]

Zaveed had barely sat back to relax when Cub, who had been taking up the rear of the group, came thundering in the room with Urzoth over his shoulder. The khajiit had enough time to register surprise on his face, as well as a pang of regret. He had forgotten to check up on the members of the group to see if anyone was missing. It was easy to take something like that for granted with so many new faces and how exciting things had become over the past day, considering the majority of the people in Helgen had somehow survived a dragon attack. Zaveed had not even realized Urzoth was knocked out, and the realization that if Cub didn’t go back for her, she may have been left behind. I’m supposed to be leading these people, but I’m not suitable for the job. If I were, this wouldn’t have happened. Am I just leading these people to their inevitable deaths? he thought, shaking his head as he approached and knelt next to Urzoth, who Cub had helped lay gently to the floor. The corsair needed to keep his thoughts to himself, his doubts need not affect the others. “Let’s see if we can’t wake her up.” He said, forcing a smile.

The khajiit knelt next to Urzoth and tried shaking her firmly by the shoulder. “You really need to stop showing up like this, Urzoth. Only a few days ago you came barging into Windhelm looking like you fought off the Imperial army before collapsing in a heap, and now you have Cub dragging you in.” he chuckled. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but most of us can’t carry you. Perhaps you should pick a few easy fights from now on, hm?”

Across the room, Marassa sat up from the bed, watching as Cub carried Urzoth in the room. She had to admit, the man’s strength was formidable. It was fortunate he seemed to be kind hearted, as someone with his strength and endurance could almost very easily kill most of the people in the room before they were stopped. She considered herself talented, but even she knew her limits. Most of the time.
As if saturating her day with orcs, the new, well-spoken one chose to approach her. She wasn’t sure what to feel about him, especially since he risked his life to protect her and keep her safe. The especially unnerving part was how he claimed to want nothing in return. Nobody expects nothing in return for risking their life. There’s something wrong here. she thought as her gaze moved up to match Gorzath’s own. The concern on his face was notable, and he didn’t seem to be expecting anything. She blinked slowly as he spoke, and made a tight smile as he mentioned her not trusting them. It was one way to put it. “One does not survive for long trusting everyone they meet on the road. Philanthropy and kindness are a quality that is lacking in these lands. At the end of the day, the only one you should ever rely on is yourself.” She said, picking up her dagger and looking at it. “It would probably give you pause if I told you the number of times I was forced to use this to defend myself from people I met on the road, and more of the number of ways I had to use it. It is fortunate my fur is a dark enough brown that dried blood isn’t too obvious.” Marassa set the dagger on her crossed legs and looked back at the orc’s face. She sighed slightly before having a warmer smile. “But I am well, I appreciate your concern. My head still aches, but it will pass. I have experienced worse, but nothing quite so…dramatic, I’m afraid.” She paused, tilting her head. “And what of yourself? You’ve been fussing over me while you’ve seen your share of injuries.” She asked.

[Rtron]

"Yes....those qualities are indeed lacking in these lands..." Gorzath mused, a glazed look coming over his eyes, and he absently rubbed his snapped tusk, as if remembering the sound and feel of the SNAP! as a Nordic boot came down upon it repeatedly. Snapping out of his little trip down memory lane, Gorzath chuckled when she spoke of that which would give him pause. "I've spent most of my time outside of my homeland wandering the world. I've seen horrors and wonders. Trust me, it's an awkward situation to explain to guardsmen, with drawn blades, whom are obviously...... distrustful.... of Orcs in general, while covered in the blood of one or three of their fellows who decided to try and kill you."

In response to her answers as to her health and her question as to his own health, he simply grinned. "That's good to hear. As for myself, the most damage I've received is a sore body and a slightly slow arm, do to the Praetorian freezing it then fleeing before I could return the favor." At this last part, a dark look flashed across his face. It was quickly replaced with his grin though. "All in all, I should recover fairly quickly." He did a quick once over of his body to make sure he hadn't missed anything. Much to his surprise, there were several burn marks, of varying degrees of severity, on his armor and his body. "Okay. Maybe I wasn't entirely truthful. There appears to be burn marks on my body as well. Nothing much. Probably from rushing through an exploding rune." Note to self: Wait for rune to explode before charging through it.

[Sanquin]

Quilh didn't even have time to really sit down and enjoy her drink. As after just one sip the entire group of people that had fought the dragon together seemed to start moving. The woman grumbled, getting up as well and slowly following them. "Damn, why's everyone in such a rush to move on." She thought to herself as she followed them. Cub had gotten up before her even, and was now carrying another orc-looking one. So apparently this was it already. No party to celebrate. Just kill the dragon, pack up and move on. Quilh decided to stay at the back of the group during their walk. She was still perfectly capable of fighting, so the ones that were already injured by the dragon and that woman whom had been controlling it should be walking in the centre. But nothing happened during that time. So on Quilh's part things were pretty boring. Something needed to be done to liven up the place a little. Problem was that she didn't have enough booze for more than maybe three other people though. And making more took time.

Finally they arrived at two large doors. The people at the front negotiated their entrance, which only took a few moments it seemed. Soon they could walk inside, revealing the entire place to be made up of dwemer ruins. And not just any ruins either. These were huge. Large halls, plenty of chambers, space for everyone and more. Once inside Quilh soon spotted what resembled a bar. If there was any place that had booze, it would be this place. With a small "Whoo~" She headed over there, dropping down the dragon bone she had snatched from the dragon's corpse before she started walking. It was no more than one of it's finger bones, but they were rare to obtain. Quilh had been smart enough to grab at least a few of the smaller ones, so she could negotiate a trade for booze with them at bars and inns. "I got dish. Yezz itsh a real drag'n bone. An' I want 10 boddels of nord mead for id." She spoke plainly, making it clear that she wasn't in the mood for haggling much. "Ten...?" The man replied, taking up the bone and looking at it for a moment. "I'll give you no more than 6...this bone's tiny." Quilh glared at the man, leaning over the counter a little bit and grabbing the man's shirt. "Lisshten 'ere bud. I god a doz-zen people to zzatishfy. You dun wanna shord-zell me r-right now." The man gulped, seeing that Quilh was quite serious in her threat. So he quickly grabbed 10 bottles of nord mead and put them on the counter. "F-fine, 10 it is. But if this is fake I'll find you..." Quilh grinned, grabbing the first few bottles and putting them in her backpack. Then she took the rest and went back to find her group again.

"Ey guys! I god even more booze! Anyone up fer a drink or dree? I can ged ush starded whid the firssht few!" The group had found a nice spot to rest. It had a fire going nearby, with plenty of room to sit around the fire as well. And in a few rooms there were a bunch of beds they could use. Close by as well, which meant Quilh wouldn't have to walk far if she was ready to go to bed, fall on top of one and pass out. A perfect place for a few rounds of drinks in her mind! Especially since they had yet to celebrate their defeat of a dragon.

[JerkChicken]

Minutes upon minutes passed by as Rashid continued hunting after that Praetorian. Sounds of the occasional birds and wind breaking up the monotony of the crunching powder beneath his steps, looking back he had saw that he had walked in some sort of haphazard pattern crossing all over as he walked away from that burnt village. It had been quite a while as he wandered about fruitlessly searching for her. That they had gone in different directions had crossed his mind, but did it really matter? He was free from those people people, free from the boredom of the cave, and free to pursue his interests.

Yet instead of running free to the wilds, he began slowly walking back to that cave. But first he would make a detour while it was still day. It's been a while since he had eaten for the day and now that the rush of the battle has worn off he's definitely feeling it along with some of the soreness of being knocked down that hard. Him scarcely performing anything closest to his fullest in the fight and existing tension meant he'd be hardly welcomed back for his brave duty. He'd rather go try and hunt something down and quietly prepare it alone then receive unwanted stares.

Entering into the cave base again with dead snowshoe hares hanging of belt, he began his usual slinking into the lonelier parts of the cave. He was to simply retreat into one of the many cooking areas, roast his hare then retreat to his sleeping area and then maybe try and fall asleep. Slowly he became distracted as the he beginnings of his thoughts on why he felt the need to come- suddenly he felt something up against his foot and his balance shifting as he nearly tripped on something. The sound of glass making clinking sounds against the stone floor as he spun around regaining his balance. Looking down he sees a blonde possibly Nordic woman in a highly inebriated state sitting close to a fire. A backpack full of bottles knocked over is close to her, pool of liquid slowly growing across the floor as the contents spill out as a sweetish scent wafts up. Instead of playing it smooth and saying and or doing something disarming he stands there in silence, half expecting this to escalate into a something mildly unpleasant.

[Psyker Landshark]

As the group began to recover and return to New Atmora, Hralvar took a moment to speak to one of the Companions. He needed a little more information about this crew of adventurers.

"Oi, Companion," Hralvar tapped a rather young Nord on the shoulder, not remembering his name. "The new people you all fought before the dragon and the Empire bitch popped in. How good were they?"

The Companion rubbed his chin thoughtfully, mentally going over their battle in his mind. "Very. One on one, they could match us well enough, and they were actually fighting us to a standstill before the dragon appeared."

Hralvar whistled softly. Damn. The Companions were some of the better fighters in Skyrim, and more than a match for most of the Stormcloaks' soldiers on an individual basis. And these newcomers took them head-on without any casualties? If the Sons could recruit these people into the fold, they'd gain a potent fighting force. But that wasn't his problem, though. Arbus would be better off briefing them. In the meantime, he needed a drink.

The old Nord made a beeline straight for New Atmora's tavern, plopping himself down at the bar and putting a few septims down.

"Barkeep! You still got that last bottle of Honningbrew? I just saw another dragon die and I'm in a damn good mood!" Hralvar asked as the man behind the bar nodded, reaching down and producing the alcohol in question. The owner of Honningbrew Meadery may have been killed for allegedly poisoning his mead, but Hralvar swore up and down that the stuff was better than the swill the Black-Briars produced. Popping the cork off the bottle, the Nord allowed himself a contented sigh as he took a swig and savored the mead.

[Sanquin]

Once again no one seemed to be willing to join her. This really sucked. It was less fun to drink when you did it alone. And for that matter what was up with this Misfits group anyway? They all went to bed or did their own thing right away. Weren't they supposed to be a group? Ever since she had joined this group felt less like companions and more like a group of strangers that travelled together out of necessity. They all just did their own thing. Quilh sighed, shaking her head a little. Why be with this group when at least she was constantly ignored and put aside? Or at least that was what it felt like up until now. She felt like she was just 'that drunk useless nord' to the rest, or something similar.

And then things got even worse. Booze was her only friend, in more ways than one. And now some clumsy oaf had tripped over her bag, throwing out the bottles of nord mead she had bought. Several broke, spilling the contents of at least 3 bottles on the floor. Quilh stared at the liquid for a few seconds, shocked at what had just happened. And then it came. Anger started to fill her, which slowly turned into rage. A rage that seemingly didn't come from just herself, but from something deep within as well. Suddenly her hand shot out, grabbing the culprit's leg tightly and pulling on it as hard as she could. This man was going down, whether anyone liked it or not! "Ya ss-pilled my mead! I'll fuckin' kill you!" She exclaimed a moment later, jumping up and raising her hands in a rather awkward looking stance. Though it fit her inebriated appearance quite perfectly.

[Robeatics]

Bells thrummed softly in the back of her mind, echoing like a single chord struck in an empty songhall. Ringing. Yet again had she pushed her own body past its limits into the realm of intense fatigue, where her dreaming consisted of distant memories retold or blurred imagery of what she assumed to be her subconscious using what little imagination it had to work with to form odd dreams of red-hot anvils and gleaming black metal. She feels a distant rumbling, a shaking from the world beyond this pit of darkness, and she gains just enough lucidity to groan what she thought constituted a sentence before fading off again. She was so, so tired. Like a single warrior keeping vigil for an entire slain tribe, night after night of silence and heavy-lidded watch for each lost soul of his brethren. Her arms were the weakest of all, her legs next only out of shuddering, crippling fear of such heights as the one she experienced while on the dragon.

Hamshank sounded like he'd wandered from the wagon and was huffing and sniffing against her ear concernedly after she'd spent an eternity in and out of consciousness. It felt like she had been carried for a long while but now she was still, laying on her back somewhere less harsh and cold than the snow. A bed, perhaps. Her lucidity slowly regenerates and she gains enough consciousness to roll over and grunt. Screw whatever was happening, she was still tired and she'd damn well enjoy some proper sleep before getting up. It didn't feel like she was chained up nor was she on a dungeon floor, a few minutes of good rest for once wouldn't kill her. Hamshank, emboldened by Urzoth's response, hops into the bed and attempts to curl up at her feet, though for a dog of his size he only appears to be smothering her. She growls through a heft of dark fur and shoves him away, making him settle between her and the wall. Great, now she was spooning her dog. She sighs inwardly and resigns to her fate, not having bothered opening her eyes at all this entire time.

The first thing that drives her to sit up and force her eyes open is the absolute dryness of her tongue. She felt like she'd swallowed all of Elswyr along with a full keg of salt, waving her tongue around in her mouth on a feeble quest to find some moisture. Every swallow was a struggle. Before opening her eyes her knees bump against something feeling like a nightstand, and by pure luck she manages to grope about and find a keg of water without just knocking it over. Ignoring the possibility that Hamshank might have shoved his snout in it she takes greedy swigs, gulping down the coolness until the pitcher was empty and her throat felt a little less dry. Her eyes crack open through a layer of crustiness and she takes in a small candlelit stone room, a fireplace near her bed casting a less-than-blinding light onto the floor that still utterly blinds her eyes and makes her curse and hiss before they adjust to the slivers of light. Her hammer, thankfully, had been placed carefully against the nightstand along with her armor on a table across from the bed and assorted equipment of hers. A small plate of jerky had been placed atop the fireplace where Hamshank couldn't get to it, presumeably for her to eat. She devours it gladly, not even giving Hamshank any despite his whining, and turns to face the partially-opened door to a hallway she didn't recognize. Shadows come and go at the pace of calm walkers and she peers out promptly after equipping her iron knuckles. The passerby were just citizens of assorted races, some glancing at her warily before scurrying by. Safe. She was safe. But where was she? Hamshank licks her hip idly, as if looking for something, and she waves him away to go lay on the bed while she equips her armour (being mindful of the still-tender burn from that Praetorian's fire spell on her shoulder) and settles her accouterments. There was a small flask labeled as a stamina potion resting on the nightstand beside the now-empty pitcher and, after verifying its contents with a quick sniff, Urzoth tips it back and lets it trickle down her throat in a muscle-relaxing rush of newfound energy. Her arms no longer ached every time she moved them and, emboldened by her nice respite, sets off out of the room in search of her allies. Hamshank and Urzoth, walking side-by-side, took up nearly the entirety of the hallway's width and she decides to use her outstanding people skills to locate Zaveed and some answers. She grabs a Nord man by the shoulder (He looks utterly terrified for a few moments so she attempts to smile like Zaveed does to calm him) and she barks with a little too much demanding in her tone, "Where is a Khajiit named Zaveed? Have you seen him? He's this high," She gestures accordingly, "And has a mowhawk." The man shakes his head, worriedly glancing between Urzoth and Hamshank. "Uh, no, sorry! You could maybe, um, ask around a little...more..." He shrinks into his collar as he notices Urzoth's features darken in frustration. She lets him scurry off back into the flow of the hallway and decides to find an alcove and sit on a bench, fuming. She hated not being in control of a situation and this situation was so far from her grasp she'd need a thousand-foot lasso to reel it back in.

As most things go for Urzoth, she grows intensely impatient and storms off down the hall before Hamshank even has time to realize she's moved. The thin hallway she'd been stomping down opened into a large artery of a hall, chandeliers dotting the ceiling as she stretches in the newfound openness. Down the long hall an open doorway led to a room that, upon further investigation, turned out to be a bathhouse. She'd taken a cloth and wiped her face with it thoroughly before turning in the opposite direction, wandering down the hall before reaching a large room complete with eight beds and a large dining table. She pushes the double doors open entirely and marvels at the steaming dwemer machinery visible at some corners of the room, tracing dark fingers over the still-shining brass lining the threshold of the doorway in intricate patterns common of dwarven architecture. She had enjoyed Windhelm, but this form of craftsmanship easily rivaled that of anything she could design herself. A bloom of gorgeous carvings, complex physical machinations in the form of steaming metal and pumping pistons, mysterious grates and wonderfully fitted stonework. It takes her a moment to notice Zaveed in the tangle of her own thoughts, eyes lighting up at his appearance. Hamshank had already greeted him with a series of rapid barking and jumping onto the couch he lounged across, busily licking him senseless. "Zaveed! Where are we? For how long was I unconscious?" She suddenly remembers what transpired during the battle and snarls in a bout of self-loathing. "Ugh! I was utterly useless in the slaying of the dragon. No amount of shame could ever compare to what I feel now." Her eyebrows knot together tightly.