The night air howled like a wild beast as wind blew snow in a blinding haze, one would just barely be able to see the torches and lamps that were hung in front of the simple buildings of the small province of Winterhold. Most of the city's if it could even be called that, were either settled into their homes for the evening or were making the attempt to drink their problems away at the Frozen Hearth. Sitting just a stone throws away from the village stood the imposing fortress know as the Collage of Winterhold which loomed over the homes of Winterhold, filling the residents with a strong mixture of hatred and fear. The occupants of this collage were of course mages, studiers of the arcane arts of magic, and it would surprise no one that they were unfazed by this gods forsaken weather in their borderline castle. Aside from the awful weather it seemed that this was a usual night for this little spot in Skyrim, but like for so many other things appearances were deceiving. As only a hour away was a convoy of Thalmor agents, traveling in secret through enemy territory to the Collage of Winterhold. Despite the little transgression, that is what the Thalmor call the murder of dozens and attempt to forcefully take over the collage, that transpired a decade ago these elves were ready to ask for help from the mages. They were ready to write the whole event off as some extremist acting on his own accord. The Thalmor wanted a base of operations to place a few of their agents in Skyrim and the Collage was the perfect place, as it stood ever neutral to the political affairs of the nation. What a meeting between these elves and the mages would bring can only be guessed at, but rest assured this will not be the only story told tonight.

Drysyval didn't mind the cold of Winterhold. It was similar to that of his home in High Rock, and if anything, made him feel more relaxed in Skyrim. He was recruiting members to his guild all throughout Skyrim, and he was going to end his trip within the College of Winterhold. Thankfully, he had already met several of the people within the college during his travels, so getting within to converse was no trouble. He came to the college with one goal in mind, and that goal was to donate to the college. Drysyval was going to donate a large sum to the college, to further magical studies and training for a new age. Of course, Drysyval was incredibly young, and was probably already considered part of the new age, but that was irrelevant. Now, it took quite a bit for the college to accept such a donation, but he eventually convinced them that it would be for the best. On top of that, Drysyval would continue to fund everything the college needed, for as long as they continue to further magical thought, as well as keep some ties to The Order of Silver Twilight. Oh well, he would just sit in the courtyard talking to his friends. He rarely spoke to them face to face, so it was good to talk to them, and much easier than writing letters. Speaking of, he needed to write more letters tonight. He probably had more friends then needed, but who rejects friends?

Brannus sat in the sole tavern of the, or rather what was left of the city of Winterhold, he and the four men he had taken with him on this little excursion gathered round the fire pit in the center of the room. The furs draped over his armor began to drip, the snow-clad pelts beginning to thaw as the frost which covered the metal plates encasing him began to dissipate. One of his cohorts, an imperial clad in fur, and what remained of his legion armor, shivered and cursed at the chill. "This damn province, why'd we have to come all the way up to the middle of a glacial field! Why don't those mages do something useful for a change and find a way to fend off the cold in this gods forsaken place?" Another Nord smacked the back of his head, his iron gauntlet giving a loud thud when it made contact with the imperial's leather helm. "Quit your bitching and just get some mead, you damn Imperials are all the same, can't handle a little nip in the air, almost as bad as those damn lizards always whining about their scales and cold blood." Brannus paid them no mind as they argued and squabbled, and after warming himself on the fire, returned to meet the rest of his men, who stood outside guarding the horses and cart. The cargo was covered by a large burlap tarp, strung tight over the wooden frame of the cart to protect its contents from the harsh elements. A large, lightly armored Orc, and a Redguard clad in both furs and steel, stood guard, weapons sheathed and hands never too far from them. The Orc gave Brannus a nod, and grumbled. "What exactly are we doing here, sir? We went straight across the whole province, we should be back at the Keep, we coul-" "Why we are here is not your concern, the fact that I told you we were to come here is what matters, whelp. Now, be patient, we shan't need to stay out in the cold for much longer, and we will return to the Keep soon enough. But if the cold is too much or you, I'll be glad to remedy that, just a quick slice along the throat, and soon it'll all be numb." The Orc decided it best not to respond to that.

Asuma was wearing a bright white uniform, she was holding a sword and she was in a black room, just there. A bright light flashed and she was in a burning village holding a sword, then she was with a group of people sitting at a long table, there was a orc a warrior woman, countless mages and even a friendly bear, it seemed weird She was holding a mug full of Mead, and infact, everyone did, and they all raised there mugs in unison, crying out something that Asuma didn't quite know, her eyes shut and she blinked again and everything was on fire, except she was walking forward holding a sword, the firy world had gigantic towers in the distance all made of brimstone, she then walked forward, seeing a man wearing a tuxedo that was half orange and half purple, so where his eyes and his hair, his hair was long and white, he was sitting down on a dark obsidian throne with happy, angry and sad faces all over it the man then stepped of off his throne and walked to her, the mans mouth turned into a smile, and then he opened his mouth causing a whole bunch of black colored smok- Asumas White armor was gone and was replaced by a plain yellow villager outfit, Asuma was lying down on a plain bed and she smelt something in the distance, it smelt weird.....it smelt like.....smoke!, Asuma gotten up, her father must've attempted to cook again, she rubbed her eyes and walked down the stairs, her living room was empty and surprisingly warm, where did her parents go?, her father had came home yesterday finally but he was gone again, but it wasn't just her father, her mother was nowhere to be seen. she heard the sound of crackling in the distance and decided to briefly look outside, it was.....horrible. everything was on fire..everything, the sounds of fire crackling has grown louder and she heard screaming, she could see someone in the distance, she slammed the door shut and panicked for a bit, walking back and forth freaking out and then she stopped, looking at her basement door, all of the secrets it held, only her father had the key and she always wanted to go down there but her father always said the same damn thing I promise I will, When Your older Asuma was old, she was fifteen, that was a quarter of the average imperials life, She put her hand on the door knob, twisting it, surprisingly the door opened with a creak, revealing a staircase, her father had unlocked the basement, Asuma wondered what to do, should she invade her dads privacy and go in? or should she respect his beliefs and leave it alone, and escape the village she was in that was burning down the sounds of fire and screaming grew louder, Asuma started breathing heavily, one of those people could be her father, or her mother, No I should stop thinking like that!, they're alive and well..I hope.... Asuma then made her first step down the stairs, and began to walk down it, closing the door and locking it behind her, she walked down. stepping down the wooden steps, the wooden steps soon turned into metal, the cold rock walls beside her, she'd finally made it down there was a chest with a note on it, a chest. just a single chest... Asuma felt a bit disappointed, she'd expected something more but, heck. she decided to walk up to the chest, it was wooden with a single padlock on it, except there was a key on the padlock, which didn't make sense at all there was a tiny note, the paper on it was yellow and crusty, it was old, Asuma picked up the note and read it, the note saying well hello my dear Asuma, if you are reading this it is probably because I am well. deceased. Do not worry, the whole "when you were older" thing was a halflie, the door was locked by a what I like to call a deadmans switch, a special kind of magic that will only open the door when, I. am. unfortunately reached the end of the road I'm on Now you may have many questions but, alias I cannot answer them, the chest should be opened too, its protected by the dead mans switch I made In it is everything you will need for survival, if I'm right your village should probably be attack on Fredas februai 806, Do not be alarmed, I am probably correct about the village being attacked, and your mother is likely dead too, I'm guessing it was the Stormcloaks that are attacking your little cheese farm, well, I can't talk forever, you'll probably die of starvation What!, Asuma expected answers, not more damn questions!, well anyways she grunted and opened the chest, inside there was a Slim sword, a bright white armor made of Fabric, and a big leather backpack, she'd token the sword and looked at it, it was amazingly light, she'd expected it to be heavy but, it was light. and it looked foreign too, the slim sword, she'd put the sword at the side of the chest for now, and tooken out the armor, which also had a note Do not let any stormcloak see you wearing this, it is made for a certain part of the imperial empire, regular Imperials would not know what you are, but this armor looks Imperial enough that it will make any stormcloak suspicious, they might not attack you at first, but they damn will be suspicious, the note made Asuma wonder, her father usually went out on long "hunting" trips with his friends, but however those hunting trips seemed a lot suspicious now, Could Asuma's father be working with the imperials? She'd picked up the bright white armor, and changed into it, the armor was also light, she didn't know how much damage it could take but weirdly, it looked very strong even though it was all Fabric, maybe it was enchanted?. she didn't really know, but she also felt a bit faster There was a stealth on the bright white armor, she picked up her sword and put it back in there, she gotten the note and it actually said, List of trustable people, Find them, they will help you 1 Tarja Eaglethorn. she was a hired hand, used to be with the forsworn, She was hired on one of the Hunting trips I was in if you find her tell her that "I'm Rikers daughter." 2 Brannus "wyrm's bane" Kreig, this man was another former Imperial, I once helped him slay a dragon that was attacking a fort tell him that you "were in the fort fighting a dragon" to him 3 Flavia Augustus decimus, a Scholar. I Had helped her get a few books on my old days, if you find her tell her that "My father knew how to make the empire better" She'll listen 4 Murkan gro-dushback, a orcish fellow, he was in the Legion but hes probably not know, if you find him tell him "my father killed Stormcloaks" to him Note, many of these people might not remember me, getting help from them is not guaranteed this answered some of her questions, Her father once was in the Legion, which made sense but, how did he know all of these people?, Less answers more questions a Map, the map was a map of skyrim that had a redline going straight to Winterhold, She felt like she should follow it, and a backpack, she opened up the backpack and it had 3 wheels of cheese and varieties of cooking ingredients, a Stove that was foldable, cooking tools, a tiny camp set, and a full canteen of water, she'd put on the backpack and left the room, going outside into the smokey air, which she was currently breathing, she nearly choked and walked through, there were flames everywhere and screaming, Asuma looked for a way out, she was terrified but she found a simple path, She turned and ran as fast as she could, running to the brighter, much better world that was infront of her Her mother may be gone, her dad is, dead, her life in ruins. she would freak out and cry right now, but she wanted answers, so she just ran, pulling out the map and following the Red line. aimlessly

Whiteout, that's all she could see around her for miles upon miles stretching across the frostbitten lands, a thick veil of snow and sleet obscuring her vision, whipping about her hardened face and blistering her fair skin with the callous chill of another infamous winter, here in a hold much deserving of its name, Winterhold. The ice storm had increased in severity since the woman first tread upon the grounds coated in frost, thick layers of it too. Just behind her lied a military outpost, a few closely clustered barracks of wood and cracked stones having been erected out here in these godsforsaken plains forever cursed with winter's fury, surrounded by thick trunks of freshly powdered pines standing tall but buckling amidst the rancorous winds terrorizing the tundra. There were three sentry towers overlooking the outpost, each positioned at the corners of the triangular layout, torches burning bright through the frost laden storm, the eyes of the enemy ever watchful, but not once did they catch eye nor hair of the Forsworn, the dreaded child of the Reach. Now, aside from the whipping winds roaring through fair Winterhold and chilling the woman's bones, not a sound befell the old fortress of Fellhammer, silence...dead silence. If one were to cross the scene, what words would they utter with hushed tongues and eyes ablaze with fright....as they stared headlong in shock upon the mounds of mutilated corpses littering the fort's grounds and dyeing the pure white frost into a frothy, red slush? Yes, bodies, hundreds of them ripped to shreds, limbs, entrails, and sinew scattered to and fro across the bloodstained walls that still shrieked with the horror that befell it not long, a werewolf attack, and how much Tarja relished the screams and lamentations as she tore into their flesh, squished their skulls in her ebony claws, yanked their intestines through their throats and feasted as a queen upon their ravaged carcases...leaving the rest to freeze out in the callous chill of Skyrim's most brutal of seasons. But no sympathy for those she slaughtered without giving quarter, for they were slayers of her kin, werewolf hunters known as the Silver Hand, mainly just a pack of uncivilized brigands, yet the killing of were-folk alike gained the Forsworn's ire, and that of her Prince Hircine. May their blades never harm a wolfblood ever again and may Hircine see that they are devoured by beasts of the Great Hunt. Twas a long journey from the fort left in ruin to the town, a journey that saw many a scrape and squabble against a few unruly frost trolls and ice wraiths, so easily dispatched by her quick prowess with a bow, but soon Tarja found herself shambling coldly into the forlorn town, gazing from the cowl of bear fur draped over her towards the immense structure that stood ominously and yet valiantly amongst Ysmir's furious winds, the telltale College of Winterhold, a place for mages and spellcasters alike to learn and practice their craft with peace of mind, well...as much peace of mind someone could get smack-dab in the middle of Stormcloak territory. Even now, it felt as if that gas-bag Ulfric was breathing down her neck, making her ill with anger towards the fiend and his alleged Sons of Skyrim, those responsible for the deaths of many near and dear to her...including one she so deeply cherished with all her heart, a heart shattered upon the bloody, sharp rocks of the Reach one horrible eve of Frostfall, a heart now shadowed...by hatred. But enough dabbling in the haunting memories of the past. She needed to get out of this gods damned storm. Ah, and what luck there was a tavern nearby. Pushing the door open, she startled a few, noting some of them to be clad in that wretched shade of blue. Stormcloaks no less. Praise Hircine she didn't have a dagger drawn to their necks already, or an arrow in their....chests. She approached near them, but gave not a glance or a word, why should she give the murdering bastards any sincerity? She discovered an empty table in the midst of the tavern and sat down, unfastening the hawk-skull broach that held together her thick pelt and let it fall revealing her armor, not to mention her face, said to be quite the fairest among the Forsworn. Aye, but not as lovely as the face of the woman who made her a Forsworn.

Walks-In-Light stood at the front of her ship, looking over her gathered crew members. Her ship, The Cliff Racer, bobbed and swayed with the low waves of Winterhold's shoddily constructed harbor, a wooden dock connected to a steep wooden staircase that ascended the cliff face. It looked much older than it was, her few inquiries suggesting that it had been built in the last decade. The crew, a scruffy mix of Nords and Saxheel, or Argonians in the more common tongue, as well as a small minority of Dunmer and the occasional Redguard, stood half expectantly, the weathered crew still shivering at the bitter winds of this desolate colony. "Now, I understand you're complaints about the lack of... services in this town. But, it is out of my control. I was asked to negotiate with an 'independent trader,' who felt that he could not trust the security of a larger hold. We also have a need to restock, and while Windhelm has a much greater selection, we need provisions to last us in a trip to Solstheim and back to the open oceans, and it is apparent many of you cannot stomach Dunmer staples," she said, mildly discontented murmuring escalating as people complained about the lack of decent mead and the fact they'd be eating Horker meat for days. Silencing her crew with a loud hiss, she continued. "Now, we shall not be here long. I'm taking the first mate and... you four," she said, picking out three Nords and a Dunmer crewman. "You'll come with me. The rest of you... make sure everything is in good condition. Sit around for all I care. I'll need some of you for carrying goods." With that conclusive statement the crew grumbled into motion, and a weathered Redguard stepped up to her. "The crew's going to have trouble focusing for a week, aye Cap'n?" he said mischievously. The crewman she had noted walked towards the captain, keeping a respectable distance. Walks-In-Light eyed her first mate with a degree of mock exasperation. "Canis, you could be on the ocean floor if this was an Imperial vessel. Come on, we're heading to the tavern for this meeting," she said, gesturing to her entourage to follow her down the gangplank and up the stairs towards the city. Canis caught up to his captain with due haste. "So what's really going on?" he asked, with a mild grin. "Some bandit king from Falkreath hold. Looking to move some goods. I'm thinking Vvardenfel is our best bet in getting them out of our hands," she said, ascending the steps with a noticeable caution, a layer of ice and snow covering the surface. Canis nodded silently, and they reached the town with tired legs. They entered the tavern in a generally undramatic manner, and approached the group of men who looked out of place by the fire place, approaching the man who looked most in charge, steel plate shining with a dull light under his layers of furs. "Would you happen to be Brannus?"

Asuma kept on running and running, until the orange light of her former village disappeared, Asuma felt.....drained, the adrenaline she had earlier had ran out, feelings came to Asumas mind, about her parents, Sadness had smashed her like a tidal wave hit the sand, quick, and leaving a mark forever, she found a tree, just a lone tree in the middle, she walked up to it, well, more like. Limped up to it. and sat down, she didn't want to keep moving, why would she have too anyways? she already fought, She'd ran for miles. her dad would accept it if she gave up... she pulled out her sword from her Stealth, aiming it at her stomach, the cold metal of the sword was right at her chest, she didn't give up yet, but she would, closing her eyes. she dropped the blade at her side, a tiny clank sound could be heard from the slim metal thing, she laid back on the Rough wooden tree, Sleeping, she wasn't quitting, her father would have died for nothing, so would her mother. but now, she was just going to lie down for a bit.

The large Nord turned from the fire to face the Argonain woman, standing to greet the merchant, and brought his fist to his chest, a simple salute, but appropriate for one who lead men and mer. His men followed his example, saluting the newcomers, before resting their hands at their sides, ready to draw their weapons if anything should go wrong. Brannus looked over the Argonian who matched his great height, sizing up the many curves and contours of her body, he had to admit, rather stunning, confidence was always attractive. "I am Brannus, I take it you are Walks-In-Light? Its a pleasure to finally meet you. Now, if you'll just follow me, my men are waiting with the goods I promised." It was a short walk back to the carriage, a far enough way that it would not be noticed or actively pursued by the local authorities. Motioning for the Orc and Redguard to move aside, the warlord pulls the tarp from the cart, revealing piles of pelts, venison, jewels, jewelry, and all manner of pilfered wines,goods, and other necessities. Opposite these more typical goods, was a small pile of bodies, toppled upon one another in various stages of mutilation, decay, and composure. "Browse my wares, there's plenty of fresh water, drink, and meat to provide you and your crew with more than enough provisions."

A tall, muscular man in armor made of bone and fur sat at the bar, his shoulders lowered and head facing downwards. Even in the inconspicuous position, one could see burning amber eyes narrowed at the wooden table in front of him. "Whiskey. Fire." His low, deep, and gruff voice growled out, sounding like it belonged more to a wolf than an actual Nord. The bartender - a female lass by the name of Mildred - nearly jumped, but thankfully kept her composure. The man hadn't spoken at all to her before, only walking in and taking a seat. He had been sitting there for at least half an hour, simply cleaning his blades before writing in a small tablet, before finally ordering. He was a startling Nord. "Right away!" She affirmed. Vaynce watched her mix the strong liquid, amber eyes drinking in the scene before he released a low hum and sat back. His business in Winterhold was simple; the innkeeper had given him a bounty some of the Jarl's men had left lying about, and it was to take out Skull's Creek - a cave nearby, holding an ample amount of cave-bears. Simple and easy. As if reading his thought, Fang, from where it had been resting by the fire, stood up and released a mighty yawn.

The wind howled and screeched as snow was blanketing the view ahead. The fact it was night made it only worse. The threat of wolves and other wildlife was ever prevalent, along with the fact there was no light to guide the way. The moon didn't seem to exist at that moment. The path ahead was covered with knee high amount of snow. The darkness made it hard to see where the cliff was. "Orc, it's so damn cold. I can barely feel my fingers." A Breton merchant cried out. Murkan grunted an affirmative response. "Does this weather not affect you, Orc?" The young Breton asked. Murkan ignored the question and continued forth, braving the elements. The Breton's father hired Murkan to escort and protect his son, along with a cart full of assortment of goods. The pay was to be negotiated upon arrival, and gold was at a shortage for Murkan so he had no choice but to accept the terms. It was several nights from Markarth, their starting point. The Breton hugged himself with his fur coat, riding on the cart as a duo of horses pulled it, leaving Murkan to travel by foot. "Weather is not what worries me, Breton. Your four-legged beasts are attracting attention." Murkan finally spoke, the air was so cold that his words froze as he said. "What are you talking about, Orc? There is only us." The Breton stuttered while he tried to mock. Murkan turned his head, as if he was addressing what attention was being drawn. The man only saw the vastness of darkness and snow. The Mer's eyes followed small shadows that danced around them. "Wolves." Murkan has watched the beasts track them since the storm began. He knew that the wolves sensed that the horses were getting tired and if they didn't reach the "safety" of Winterhold, the wolves would be upon them soon. It seemed as if the horses figured out what was happening too, they moved quicker, forcing Murkan to quicken his pace to stay along side the cart. Murkan gave only a slight grin that was hidden by his helmet. As they got closer, if night and the storm weren't upon them, the duo would've been able to see the College of Winterhold and the village it casted its' shadow over. They could see fragments of light fight through the darkness. "We are there, Orc. We shall rest at the tavern and then in the morning, we discuss how well you did." The Breton managed to smile through the wind. A dark outlined loomed over the duo, to both of them it was obvious it was the College. As they entered town, they could see how small it really was. Murkan had never been to Winterhold before, his distaste towards mages and magic made it an unacceptable place to go to, until now. As the Breton rode his cart into a narrow space, Murkan looked around. There were few shops, a tavern, and the Jarl's longhouse. "The chests are locked, and I don't expect anyone to try to carry them away during this storm." The Breton tuck a small box into his coat and pointed towards the tavern. "What of the horses?" Murkan asked. The Breton shrugged, "Father can always get more." and with that the duo entered the tavern. Warmth wafted over them, Murkan was silently relieved that they finally arrived. The Breton was quick to make his relief public. "Ah, time to let these fingers thaw and down some mead to really help with the warmth." Murkan ignored his companion's comment yet again, his eyes went over the patrons of the tavern. He noticed what seemed to be an Argonian and a rather large Nord speaking to each other. Another rather large Nord was at the bar, peering at the table before him. A houndish beast laid near the fire. The Breton called Murkan over to a small table in the corner, where the fire casted very little light, whom quickly joined the merchant who was already ordering up cups of mead for the both of them. "With these goods, Father shall be pleased, maybe he will let me take care of the family business while he is away." Murkan gave a quick frown, then proceeded to bring the Nordic swill to his lips. It tasted awful, but the feeling afterwards made the tips of his ears warm. The Orc downed it while the Breton took his sweet time. "So, Orc." The Breton set down his mead. "What were you doing in Markarth at the time?" Murkan's memory casted him back. At that time, he was busy with helping clear out Dwemer machines that were uncovered in a new part of Nchuand-Zel. The Breton continued to wait for the Orc to respond. "Murkan was helping in the Dwarven ruins." he finally responded. The merchant's eyebrows raised sarcastically as he brought the cup to his mouth. Murkan was getting annoyed with this Merchant's son, he wanted his coin and then to leave Winterhold.

"Ah. My thanks. I'll take this in account for the bargaining. Now, onto the goods themselves. The 'research material' might not be viable on the market. The ride to Vvardenfel means those will probably be Bosmer leftovers by the time we make it to port. The rest interests me more. There's a bunch of newly rich men in Vvardenfel who are sick of ash yams and saltrice and swaddling themselves in layers of linen to keep warm in the more dusty and desolate regions. They could use some furs and Nordic wines and real, red blooded meat rather than the pickings of some beetle. Jewelry will always sell, and the father we get it from Skyrim the better I'm able to price it considering the circumstances. Now, if you're screwing me you're not moving any goods out of Falkreath until the next Era, so if you have any goods that may not be up to snuff I'd ask that you point them out to me. Then we can get to work. It's too damn cold to be standing around out here anyways," Walks-In-Light noted, lightly ruffling through the takings through a gloved hand. Canis looked on with interest and perhaps mild revulsion, the dead bodies not being an olfactory pleasure for anyone involved. The crewman correctly stood a good distance back and attempted to listen to as little as possible.

It had only taken the barmaiden a few seconds to completely mix the strong liquid, and Vaynce accepted it with a large, calloused hand, the large mug feeling cold against his naturally warm skin. The sound of the tavern's door opening caused him to glance over with only his eyes, his head still facing the counter as his abnormally strong nose sucked in the scent of the burning fire whiskey. An Orc in commendable armor walked in with what appeared to be a regular Breton merchant. Probably a sell-sword, the Orc was. He appeared competent and strong enough for the job, and his hardy armor and rough form would shade him away from the cold winter. Satisfied with his observation, Vaynce returned his gaze to his cup. "'Scuse me lass," A snivelly, yet deep voice croaked nearby. A drunken man - A Nord, most-likely - had stumbled into the tavern, and immediately was fixed on the rather attractive barmaiden. The man was tall and bulky, like quite a lot of his race, and had fiery red hair and a salt-and-pepper beard; putting him around his mid to late 30s. An iron war-axe was strapped to his side, and otherwise, he wore a regular green tunic, pants, and a furred coat that looked to be made of goat-hide. A regular worker or miner. "Can you be gettin' me som' of 'at fiiiiine ale?" As he spoke, the man had collapsed onto the chair beside Vaynce, some of his bulk leaning against the quiet Werewolf. Ignoring the feeling of anger, Vaynce merely returned to his drink, although his ears were now on the conversation. "Y-Yes, sir." Mildred murmured shyly, barely contained disgust in her warm honey irises. It was obvious that the drunken man had been eyeing her rather exposed cleavage as he said those words, and she knew what he was talking about. Vaynce hated men like that; perverse men that had nothing to do but to get drunk and bother other people. He took another gulp of his whiskey, loving how it burned all the way down into the pit of his gut. Good stuff. "So, what's yer name, stranger?" Damn it. Vaynce didn't respond, opting to simply sit his mug down and stare into the amber liquid. Don't get mad. Don't get mad. Of course, the Wolf inside of him was howling, and Vaynce needed the stress relief before leaving Winterhold. A fist-fight would do him good. "Yer not going to tell me yer name?!" The drunken man slammed his hairy fist down near his whiskey, sending the mug falling onto the warm wooden floor. Vaynce calmly took off his gauntlets. The man had one more time, before actually beating his ass would be justified, and wouldn't get him in trouble with the law. He didn't really feel like cutting down good men today. The barmaiden, apparently knowing where this was going, sat down the mug of ale with a small smile and wink. Good. Embry, as expected, grabbed the mug and tried to throw the cold liquid in Vaynce's face...as expected. His fists now bare, Vaynce lashed his wrist upwards, slamming it into the mug before it could tip over. It went flying into the fire, sending a gout of flame into the air, and also alerting Fang - whom promptly stood up on two feet, towering over some of the occupants near him. It roared, as Embry took a step back and readied his fists. "Let's go, wise guy!" Vaynce still hadn't talked. Smoothly standing, the Slayer immediately blasted forward with a haymaker that sent Embry flying back with a broken, bloodied nose and lip - but, Vaynce grabbed him by the neck before he could fall onto the Orc and Breton duo that had just entered. With brutal ease, he swung Embry over-head, slamming the slightly shorter Nord deep into the wooden floor. Eat those splinters. The Slayer bent down. "Name's Vaynce." He growled lowly, into Embry's ear, so that only Embry and anyone nearby could hear. A pained groan accompanied his name reveal. With a disgusted snort, Vaynce sat back down at the bar, giving the barmaiden a head incline and an apologetic grimace. "A few septims for the trouble." Vaynce spoke quietly, lying a hefty pouch down on the counter. With a smile and a 'Thank You', Mildred skipped off to help other customers.

She seemed as if she paid no mind at all to the squabble behind her, which ended just as swift as it began with a few heavy blows, yet it wasn't easy to ignore a typical bar-room tussle as this. When at first the drunken braggart did swagger and sway about the lowly tavern, Tarja was already anticipating a fight to commence, one hand casually rested upon the table clutched around her tankard of spiced ale while the other was discreetly yet vigilantly held over her steel dagger, should she have to draw it and give it a quick plunge into the bastard Nord's neck. Luckily, no violence had to follow from the Forsworn woman, because if it were her having to join the fray, that drunken buffoon would be bleeding from more than a busted nose and mouth. With a gruff sigh, she merely scowled to herself thinking of what a fool the Nord made of his self in front of everyone, yet a smirk at how the other dealt with him, so brash, so brutal and unrestrained...well slightly restrained actually. A common attitude of someone carrying...wolfblood in their veins. Tarja sighed again and downed the last of her ale, clattering her tankard against the stout, pinewood table, which garnered the attention of the barmaid Mildred. "Can I get you anything else, lass?", with a sweet chime she asked the Forsworn. Tarja only glanced at her with a pair of hardened eyes, empty eyes practically void of any emotion at all, and shook her head quietly before Mildred gathered her tankard and whisked herself away feeling a tad nervous of the slightly taller woman. She stood from her table giving a stretch and cracking a few bones in her neck before turning around, inadvertently facing the victor of the brawl. Vaynce was his name, as given roughly by his own voice to the drunk left bleeding and out cold on the wooden floors of the tavern, small plits of red here and there from where his teeth were caved in on the spruce planks. Tarja looked at him for a moment, shaping him up it seemed. He was a burly lad for sure, a physique worthy of Ysmir himself, yet Tarja could sense, even feel from a few paces away the ferocity oozing from his pores in such a foreboding aura, well...foreboding to some. Then, just for once did the woman's lips part, and soon she spoke, low, almost inaudible, and with a heaviness to her voice, "You fight with the strength of Ysgramor, Companion." He outed himself to the woman, easy to tell he was of the Companions. Tarja only knew of them from her travels of Skyrim, having stopped in Whiterun for a night of rest and hearing from Hulda of the Bannered Mare of the mighty Companions and their Harbinger, a powerful and noble warrior. Jorrvaskr where they made their home, the mead hall atop the hill of stone leading to the Skyforge, where the fires blazed hotter than the steam billows of the Rift. Yet, what she also heard was talk of how the Silver Hand once led an attack on Jorrvaskr, claiming the life of the former Harbinger, a Kodlak Whitemane. From there, Tarja just put two and two together. Only a particular reason they'd gain the ire of those worthless buffoons with their fancy swords. Tarja sat beside Vaynce at the bar, her eyes forward with a distant gaze elsewhere while she spoke, "Wasn't expecting to run into the finest warriors of Whiterun here in Winterhold. Long way from home, aren't you?"

A strong blizzard was sweeping through the frozen forests of the north just outside of Winterhold, something Keldir had forced himself to try to get used t through his travels but had never managed to get over it, so being in the harshest place in skyrim during a blizzard was not the most pleasant experience for Keldir. "Damm this frozen waste" Keldir said to himself as he pulled his hood down even further while trying to navigate through the icy wind and ground deep with snow "If there are no books worth my time here im going to sink the rest of that dammed town into the sea" he said bitterly for the last few years he had not come across any books worth his time which only added to his irratble state as he thought about it as he marched on. After a few more hours of trekking through the snow, Keldir saw a stream of blue light coming out of the ground, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him at first but sure enough as he got closer he saw the great stone beast that was supposedly the College of Winterhold, the only reason to come to Skyrim and even then it wasnt a very good one. Keldir marched further down the hill towards the town until he reached the gates of the College. A young elven woman greeted him and after explaining for what he had come for and a rather grandioese display of magic, Keldir breathed a sigh of relief as he was allowed in. Keldir, now unsure where to go exactly as the elven woman had given him no directions, looked around for someone to give him some. Keldir spotted a young man sitting in the courtyard and approached him "Greetings, would you be able to give me directions by any chance?"

Asuma opened her eyes and gotten back up off of the cold dirty ground near the tree, picking up her stuff she pulled out her map, the map was much like the notes in her fathers basement, old and crusty, the air was cold, but there wasn't any snow too her surprise she was actually closer to whiterun than she thought, infact she was almost next too it, just a few miles, Asuma ran to the north, following the map, soon tiny white snowflakes fell to the ground, soon the entire ground was snow. Thank the empire for boots Asuma should feel cold, but she didn't really, maybe the armor was doing something or she was just simply, not cold, Hours passed, about 5 and she saw the distant ruin of a village in the distance, she felt a bit disappointed, her father always told her about whiterun, about the college of mages and the city. But the village was pretty much a wreckage except for a single store, town hall, and a bar The sky was gray with snow clouds and the bar was small and wooden, she walked up to it and opened the bar, the atmosphere changed as quick as a jackrabbit running across a hill, the bar had a tense atmosphere, like a fight was about to breakout, but at the same time a happy Atmosphere Asuma pulled out her map, she noticed the map led straight to the Bar, whats so damn important about a bar?! wait a minute, she noticed a Orc, a Forswornish girl, a guy with big black hair and pretty much, almost everyone her note mentioned, it was like her father meant for her to be there, at that time

"You're so interesting for an Orc, where did y-" The Breton was cut short, a drunken Nord was about to topple on them, until another one grabbed the drunk by the throat. What happened next was rather interesting. The drunk was swung about and ended up on the ground. The other one was bending down over the defeated man. "Name's Vaynce." the Nord said. "Go get a room. Long night." Murkan said to his employer. So the Breton went over to the bar and sat down, waiting for Mildred to come back. Murkan continued to look at the man before him. "Pathetic...weak.." He mumbled. Embry must have heard the Orc ridicule him,"Shove off, you pig." The man said through what was left of his teeth. Murkan frowned and ignored the man, he walked over the man and to the merchant. "Makin' friends are we Orc?" The Breton chuckled. Mildred finally came back. Murkan noticed the barmaiden give a few quick looks at the Nord who seemed to end some of her disguist, and a lass who was talking to the Nord. The lass was quite the specimen, she was rather tall, taller than some of the men-patrons who were in the tavern. She was also somewhat built, not a rare sight on a Nordic women, but impressive nonetheless. The pair of Nords seemed to have a type of aura about them that the Orc couldn't quite figure out. The Breton ordered up around for himself and the Orc, yet again. Murkan was silently slamming his mead whilst his companion was trying to interrogate him. "Like I was saying, where did ya come from, Orc? You from out of Skyrim?" The Breton peered from behind his cup. "Murkan thinks you ask too many questions, Breton. Drink more, talk less." Murkan stamped that with a slam of his cup, signifying it was empty. Mildred came over to get him more, he put his hand over the cup, signifying he didn't want anymore. The Breton continued on, asking questions and annoying the Orc as much as he could.

Asuma barely had any idea what to do now, she took another look at the note, pretty much almost everyone was here, How much did her father plan?, She thought for a bit and then noticed something, pretty much everyone here except for the people on the notes were staring at Asuma. Muttering things under there breath, I think I'm at the wrong bar.... Asuma thought but she was most likely wrong, theres no way this is the wrong bar, Asuma walked up to the bar counter, Sitting down on a bar stool. the whole bar was quiet except for a few people Talking about something, She heard someone say the name "murkan" somewhere, that name was on the list. It was almost like her father planned the entire thing from start to finish like some James bond villain. Wait whos james bond? She heard more people muttering in a corner, she hated it here. And I came here why? She didn't quite know what to do, should she try to talk to the orc person who was Apparently on her List-of-maybe-trustable-people?, she just sat down in the bar, staring at the little wooden counter infront of her, wondering what to do

It must be quite intimidating, a, tall, rather muscular wild woman staring at you, her face covered in thick smears of war paint and her attire consisting of nothing but fur and hides, gazing at you with eyes hardened by years of strife, yet that is what the girl had gotten once she stepped into the Frozen Hearth and garnered the Forsworn's attention towards the small, resounding creak of the wood and the slight chilly gust that followed it and raised a few hairs on the back of her neck. Tarja's eyes moved from the Nord at her side towards the sound of footsteps, light footsteps indicating the person in question was a youth, of fifteen or sixteen winters maybe. The girl, she looked familiar to Tarja. Where had she last seen her, this spry youth? Was she the daughter of a Jarl? Perhaps someone she had crossed paths with in her time? It was oddly perplexing to her as she eyed the girl clad in the purest shades of white, albeit a bit smeared by dirt and rubbish. Must have traveled a long way, as Tarja could tell by her fatigued and sluggish demeanor. Here was someone in need of a good meal, a good drink, and a good bed indeed. Still, where has she seen this girl before? Her eyes skimmed about the tavern, noting her surroundings and those who occupied the space. Just the typical rabble, Nords, Nords, and more Nords, some of them definitely men of Ulfric, still gathered around their tables clanking tankards, the large stone fireplace crackling with undulating flames of a calming heat and a pleasant orange glow, all while a traveling bard sang of a past hero and their many endeavors, her dainty fingers gently plucking at her lute, and the haggard drunks gulped their belly’s fill of mead chortling heartily and laughing at many a drunken jest passed back and forth. There were others who occupied the tavern, a burly orc and his chattering Breton companion, a surprise he hasn't buried an axe in that bastard's head just to shut him up, and yet another male Nord clad in armor, this one speaking to one of those strange lizard-folk from Black Marsh, Argonians they were called. Tarja had only encountered a few, and of those few...she was weary of their reputation after a while.

She seemed as if she paid no mind at all to the squabble behind her, which ended just as swift as it began with a few heavy blows, yet it wasn't easy to ignore a typical bar-room tussle as this. When at first the drunken braggart did swagger and sway about the lowly tavern, Tarja was already anticipating a fight to commence, one hand casually rested upon the table clutched around her tankard of spiced ale while the other was discreetly yet vigilantly held over her steel dagger, should she have to draw it and give it a quick plunge into the bastard Nord's neck. Luckily, no violence had to follow from the Forsworn woman, because if it were her having to join the fray, that drunken buffoon would be bleeding from more than a busted nose and mouth. With a gruff sigh, she merely scowled to herself thinking of what a fool the Nord made of his self in front of everyone, yet a smirk at how the other dealt with him, so brash, so brutal and unrestrained...well slightly restrained actually. A common attitude of someone carrying...wolfblood in their veins. Tarja sighed again and downed the last of her ale, clattering her tankard against the stout, pinewood table, which garnered the attention of the barmaid Mildred. "Can I get you anything else, lass?", with a sweet chime she asked the Forsworn. Tarja only glanced at her with a pair of hardened eyes, empty eyes practically void of any emotion at all, and shook her head quietly before Mildred gathered her tankard and whisked herself away feeling a tad nervous of the slightly taller woman. She stood from her table giving a stretch and cracking a few bones in her neck before turning around, inadvertently facing the victor of the brawl. Vaynce was his name, as given roughly by his own voice to the drunk left bleeding and out cold on the wooden floors of the tavern, small plits of red here and there from where his teeth were caved in on the spruce planks. Tarja looked at him for a moment, shaping him up it seemed. He was a burly lad for sure, a physique worthy of Ysmir himself, yet Tarja could sense, even feel from a few paces away the ferocity oozing from his pores in such a foreboding aura, well...foreboding to some. Then, just for once did the woman's lips part, and soon she spoke, low, almost inaudible, and with a heaviness to her voice, "You fight with the strength of Ysgramor, Companion." He outed himself to the woman, easy to tell he was of the Companions. Tarja only knew of them from her travels of Skyrim, having stopped in Whiterun for a night of rest and hearing from Hulda of the Bannered Mare of the mighty Companions and their Harbinger, a powerful and noble warrior. Jorrvaskr where they made their home, the mead hall atop the hill of stone leading to the Skyforge, where the fires blazed hotter than the steam billows of the Rift. Yet, what she also heard was talk of how the Silver Hand once led an attack on Jorrvaskr, claiming the life of the former Harbinger, a Kodlak Whitemane. From there, Tarja just put two and two together. Only a particular reason they'd gain the ire of those worthless buffoons with their fancy swords. Tarja sat beside Vaynce at the bar, her eyes forward with a distant gaze elsewhere while she spoke, "Wasn't expecting to run into the finest warriors of Whiterun here in Winterhold. Long way from home, aren't you?"

Now...this was surprising. Vaynce would be lying if he said he knew who this person was. Tall, standing shorter than him, but taller than most women, with a leanly muscular build and a face that belonged to a War-Chief...this female was certainly strong. He could tell by the way she moved, and by the way she spoke. What was more surprising, however, was the fact that she seemed to know he was a Companion; he didn't where the fancy wolf armor the other Brother and Sisters seemed to enjoy. However, there was something...familiar about this lady. As if they were long-lost friends or acquaintances. It was the same feeling he got when he was around the other companions. Maybe...she was one of wolf-blood? Just as he was about to entertain her question, the sound of a tavern's door was heard, and a young...too young female entered the tavern. A milk-drinker. Wouldn't last a day. "Surprised you know that I'm a companion." Vaynce finally spoke, lowly so that no one else could hear their conversation. His voice was already low and gruff, so it didn't require too much effort. "Who are you?" He felt as if he should remember her name. She just had...that aura about her. It wasn't too often that he met an honestly strong Nordic woman.

Tarja turned to the Nord next to her hearing him speak, a pinch of a wolfish gleam in her frosted eyes glancing toward him. He was wolfblood alright, but then so was she a creature of the moon, a newborn child of the Stag Prince. "Trust me. It isn't difficult pinpointing the mighty warriors of Jorrvaskr." Tarja replied with a small chuckle, the young barmaid having brought her another tankard of ale, mainly out of good faith though Tarja paid her a few septims in return. she took a drink, sighing gruffly and setting the iron tankard aside before resuming. "Tarja." She introduced herself with a curt nod. "And like you, I too am far from home, far from the steep hills and stones of The Reach. So Companion, what brings you towards these gods-forsaken lands of snow and peril? The only damnable reason one would travel to Winterhold is just for their esteemed College of mages....or to join those gods-damned Stormcloaks." Just mentioning their name, it left a bitter bite upon her tongue, and not that of the ale she swallowed down her gullet. Yet how strange the woman wasn't much for speaking, yet here she be carrying on a conversation with the brutish Nord beside her. Then again, she did feel at ease sensing the essence of wolf-blood within him.