Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, the Roxey Steakhouse -- Midyear, 4E 201


It was the middle of summer that late afternoon in northern Cyrodiil. The lofty Jerall Mountains stood silhouetted against the deep blue sky awaiting the twilight sun to color it its gentle orange-red. The forest stretching north from the village was full green with tall, strong trees, and children and their pets could be seen romping around in their efforts to squeeze a few more precious moments of playtime out of the day. The villagers were finishing up the day's chores, trying to set one more fence post or bind up one more hay bale before heading to the Roxey Steakhouse for their supper.

The steakhouse was a grand, two-story edifice among the village's simple homes, its size surpassed only by the great barn behind it. A tall stone chimney poked up from the roof. The first floor catered to the hungry and thirsty, while the second held the rooms where weary travelers could rest their heads on a pillow.

Gavinyarel was seated in the back corner of the tavern, halfway through his dinner of roasted venison and fried potatoes, and on his third mug of ale. He was leaned against the back of his chair, silently observing everyone else and appreciating how they dug into their meals with all the gusto of hard workers finally able to lay down their tools for a little while. He wished he could share in their rapture, but he knew all too well that his mission would drag him out of bed at the crack of dawn and spur him ever closer to Skyrim. In a way, he envied them.

The northbound Altmer quietly ate the rest of his meal and downed another mug of ale before the sleepiness began to come. He scooted his chair against the wall and rested his head in the corner as he contemplated how wonderful a real bed would feel compared to the bedroll he had resting beside him, which was only ever as soft as the ground upon which it lay, which of course meant rarely soft at all.

Little did Gavinyarel know that things would soon get much more interesting.

Riona Galsette: The Roxey Village, the Roxey Stakehouse -- Mid year, 4E 201

Heartbeats like the hard trotting of a hell steed banged against the girl's ribcage, neck hairs needled up and a searing ache ripped on the soles of her feet. The whooing of owls and nocturnal creatures that rose from their nests quieted her steps as her legs desperately endured the fear enriched adrenalin that pushed the young Breton to make as much distance from the rotted moored ship as she could.

Darkness loomed closer before her along the road but she dared not stop, her eyes mixed with tears and sweat still reflected the horror she had seen. It was not till exaustion made its clear demand for her to halt that she clasped her side and fell to one knee and finally submitted to the burn of her lungs and the pain in her legs. It had been many miles since the phantom rendered the chase futile yet the breton hadn't ceased till now when her body was well beyond its limits. This was always the case for she cowered at all manner of ghosts and specters.

So much for a poor aspiring witchhunter.


Up ahead an old building still cradled by the last few rays of the setting sun glowed in the distance. The girl gulped breaths and clutched her side as elongated shadows from trees and and branches reached for her along the road. She stood after a brief respite and pushed on slowly away from whatever her mind exaggerated beyond the wall of trees. A few paces ahead was an old wooden sign labeled Roxey Steakhouse and Inn. The petite female wiped away the grime and sweat from her arms, neck and forehead with an old rag and with a small rejuvenating huff, made a stern face and walked in.

Anyone could have guessed what the establishment was from the sign in the front and its location on a main road but the brunette ignored small details like that. Many times in the past she had walked into private homes and ordered their owners for a meal and drink only to be kicked out with a curse and a broom swat. To her, the images on signs were all she needed to read.

Dancing lights of lanterns and big hearth in the back wall of the bar of the salon made the place have a very homely touch. Her eyes scanned around taking in the local patrons engaging in all sorts of activities from dining, talking and even singing along with a jittery bard who seemed to have bugs in his trousers. A very lively scene with an aura of its own special touch of peace about it. Chest puffed and both hands on the strap of her pack, the girl made her way up to the bar and placed an order for pint of ale.

The proprietor was an old imperial man who gave her the type of look that slightly rubbed her the wrong way. It was like his face made a silent remark at her not being able to hold alcohol due to her height imparment. He was almost a bit reluctant at taking her money for the drink but obliged since her eyes returned a look of demand. Her drink was poured and she turned to lean her back and elbow on the bar table, she chugged her beverage in as few gulps as she could. 

Ale was the only medicine that could cure the type of fear only a wraith could inflict.

A satisfactory exhale and another round was ordered as she slid the bartender another couple of septims. The drink went down her throat smoothly and a silly smile began to peer from the corners of her lips. The alcohol sure was pick-me-up from the fraight she was still recuperating from.

Liquid courage is what she called it but in her case it was more like liquid arrogance. "I'm a professional witch hunter and I make my living solving the problems of cowards too scared to deal with the evils and nightmares of this world." She suddenly blurted.

A hiccup belowed as soon as the last syllable was uttered.
True to a lightweight tolerance the "courage" she consumed already began to take hold. It was all because of a wraith back at the Mouth of the Panther that had made her make quick dust on the trail here. She'd been running and walking for several hours now and it was all due to her being a spineless mudcrab when it came to almost any kind of dealings with the dead or undead

Her last statement sounded more heroic and honorable, and even a bit philosophical in her head. This was not the case as she foolishly gathered the attention of most patrons with her slurred loud mouthing. Now with the spotlight on her face, she walked over to the billboard of job listings. There were a few fetch quests, errands and even some wanted posters. Only one particular job captured her attention, it was of a zombified corpse that had been stalking and scaring the local folk in the village's nearby cemetery.

It wasn't that it was too much of a nuisance for the imperial guardsmen to be dispatched to deal with, no the simple case was that these people were left to take care of it on their own due to them dwelling so remotely. The problem was that most were either too superstitious or too scared to attempt the job. Zombies are not to be trifled with and could easily match a warrior and leave him just and limbless and disemboweled as they were. It was a certain danger that struck a personal nerve on Riona. Undead meant necromancy was at hand and that was something she could not forgive. 

Personal honor and vendetta drove her impulse to snatch the parchment off of the billboard and stuff it in one of her breast pockets. "Consider your pest g-gone folks, Riona Ga-l-s-sette is on the job!" She studdered loud and her heavy and uncoordinated steps lead her outside the main door just as night began to draw in. Half stumbling already, she set path towards the local graveyard marked on the listings map. It was clear she was on the thin line of tipsy and drunk already as she bumped into a few fence posts here and there.

Poor witchunter-to-be, oh what trouble awaits you.

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, The Roxey Steakhouse -- Midyear, 4E 201

Gavinyarel had planned on going to bed early tonight, but the raucous entrance of a dark-clothed Breton girl stole his attention away from sleep. There was a slightly smallish crossbow at one leg, and a knife at the other; a quiver of bolts was on her back. Yet, for all her gear, Gavinyarel noticed the auburn hairs on the back of her neck were bristled. He thought perhaps she'd met with a highwayman and either parted with her purse the hard way or repaid his aggression with a bolt. The lack of blood swayed him toward the former.

Once the girl reached the counter, the zeal with which she knocked back her drinks only retold the story her entrance told. He paid her no more attention then, content to let her mind process whatever had happened on its own. He twiddled a fork in fingers as he went back to browsing the patrons. Dusk hadn't quite yet tinged the windows gold, but he prayed for the moment it did so he could retire for the night. The road to Skyrim hadn't been an easy one at the start, and with the formidable Jerall Mountains looming in the distance, deceptively beautiful to mortal eyes in all their snow-shod grandeur, he hardly expected things to smooth out anytime soon.

Not long after, the Breton girl defied his ignorance by boisterously proclaiming that she was a "professional witchhunter" as she put it, a woman able to face those heart-stopping horrors that dwell within the deepest, darkest, most miserable and isolated nooks and crannies Tamriel had to offer. Gavinyarel casually glanced around the room and wondered who she was fooling. He observed her crossbow and her other gear more closely, humoring himself as to why a master of her trade would wield tools of apprentice-level quality at best. I bet her backpack's got little more than provisions and grooming supplies in it.

Now intrigued, Gavinyarel followed with his eyes as she marched over to the bulletin board littered with the sketches of outlaws and the brokenhearted pleas of people that were foolish enough to haul their inexperienced hides into some dark, dank cave and drop their lucky rusted butter knife deep inside in their haste to escape the gargantuan shadow inching ever closer around a corner lit by the sunlight coming in through a second opening. Gavinyarel almost felt more sorry for the little mouse or squirrel that owned the shadow, who'd then round the corner only to find his new visitor frantically fleeing for his life, shouting stammered prayers to any holy-sounding person or being their frantic minds could pull from beneath the cobwebs. Perhaps she dabbles in bandit hunting or trinket retrieval too... he thought as he watched her peruse the board. He smirked at her from his corner for a moment or two, but his smirk soon flipped into a frown when he remembered one particular notice, an urgent demand for some brave soul to take up the sword against a foul zombie defiling the cemetery. No...surely not... Gavinyarel said inwardly.

His fascination with her mood's capacity to change with her alcohol content soured as she announced her latest crusade. He saw her stumble back out of the inn and even watched her blunder against the fence posts for a bit. He rolled his eyes and cupped his head in his hand. I'm probably going to regret this, but I suppose I should at least get fifty septims out of this...assuming she survives this. he thought as he got up and began following her at a distance; he'd interrupted women on missions before, and he'd always been sorry for it in the past.

Riona Galsette: The old Roxey chapel cemetery. -- 4E 201

"Oooooooooooooh, there once was a hero named blrrrghrl the red who-" her legs advanced in a crisscross motion with every other step as she tried to recall an old song she picked up from a traveling Nord who happened to be a bard from skyrim. "-Who came riding to Whuhrun from ole yuckystead."

She was not only off key but butchered the song effortlessly. A a few sounds in the inching night and a couple of hiccups prevented her from continuing her offensive abuse of the bard's trade.

Woodland creatures hushed the closer she got to her destination, silance was always the most tell-tale ominous sign that evil lurked close by. After making her trail upwards towards a slope that lead to an abandoned chapel with a gated cemetery, she placed her pack next to a half crumbled pillar that used to be a decorative arched entryway into the old building.

There was already a heavy fog beginning to form and coat the ground and surrounded each headstone like a sheet of dread that wallowed everything in its path. Rotted pews could be seen inside the old church house still trying to retain the look and feel of their former humble glory. The roof inside was full of holes and whatever furniture that hadn't been seized or stolen in the past had succumbed to the native weather over the years. Truly a spooky place where most normal people could be tested on their nerve in the day and much more at night. 

The Breton made her way through the broken down edifice and out the back opening leading to the main part of the cemetery behind the church. There was a misstep on her part and she tumbled a few steps to her right losing balance in poor equilibrium and landed hard on her rear and right palm.

"I'm alright!" She said out loud even though there was no one there supposed to hear her.

She laughed with a drunken hysteria for a couple of minutes at her own clumsiness taking her a couple of tries to get up and stand on her feet. She drew her crossbow and loaded a bolt. So far even with all her ruckus, not a single corpse had risen from its slumber, at least, not yet. She closed her eyes tightly for a few seconds holding them in place before fully opening them as much as she could to try and get accurate vision but it was to no avail, she was already way too inebriated. She saw twice as many tombstones and pillars than there actually were. Her head spun from here to there and externally, it seemed she was struggling to walk a straight line. 

"Hey come out!" She yelled in an authoritative tone demanding for her opponent to come face her at once. "I'll kill you a second time, you won't get up again!"

Nothing, there was no response from any living thing or dead. The graveyard seemed quiet and peaceful for the time being and after a minute or so, Riona became infuriated with the eternal waiting that had only passed in her head. She shot a bolt in a random direction disappearing into the thick blanket of puffy white that had covered the ground. A hard metallic ding could be heard at a distance fallowed by an echo of a solid hit. A small piece of cobble stone had been chipped from an unsuspecting headstone that had dared to come across the enraged woman's path.

She reloaded and aimed her sights at a winged statute of a woman sitting in a praying position over the entrance of a small tomb. There was an old wooden door that was half opened and half broken. Planks and pieces littered the ground and spread all over. It seems that the damage had come from the inside out. A dark corridor with a flight of stony steps lead the way into an abysmal darkness underground. The situation angered the young Breton even more as she had no torch and needed a light source before diving inside. 

It didn't take too long of her staring deep into the black mass of nothingness before her that low and gargled moan began to emanate from within.

"Bring it."

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, the Old Roxey Chapel Cemetery -- Midyear, 4E 201



Gavinyarel followed as close as he dared behind the Breton woman, not so close as to alert her to his presence, but still close enough to hear her slurred, somewhat inaccurate rendition of "Ragnar the Red," a common favorite in the taverns of Skyrim. The sun had set by this time, and Gavinyarel's night vision was still adjusting, a predicament that made navigating the loose dirt and rocks a little more exciting than he'd bargained for.

Before long, Gavinyarel came before the cemetery in question: a bleak relic of a community apparently none too infatuated with the idea of attending church. Mist was beginning to veil the area, and he had to try hard to keep the Breton girl in his sight while still scanning for the zombie.

Gavinyarel nonchalantly tucked himself behind one of the trees just outside the cemetery grounds when he saw the woman brandish her crossbow, peering out from behind only just enough to continue viewing. After a little high-impact defacement of an unlucky tombstone, Gavinyarel heard the bloodcurdling moan that sounded from within the mausoleum that now stood before the woman. He put a hand to his ebony shortsword's hilt and, content that she was sufficiently focused on the impending confrontation, moved up behind one of the pillars. Do or die time...

Riona Galsette: The Roxey Village, the old Roxey chapel cemetery -- Midyear, 4E 201

"Hic.." The alcohol had been simmering in her system and the already blurred vision became much more than an impairment. A gray leathery hand outstretched reaching out to her from out of the dark pit. Slowly, under the moonlight, a rotting milky white foot emerged fallowed by the torso of a headless humanoid.

Whatever race this thing had been before, there was no way of telling now. The creature had a devilish demeanor about its movements. Jerking and inching fast, exposed torn ligaments of red muscle tissue propelled its hands grabbing and trying to claw at the young girl. The grumble and resonance its moaning made from the open hole in its neck, was a spine chilling sound that would have immediately rushed all the blood from the rouge's face had she not been this drunk.

A step back and pull of the trigger, the first steel bolt was inside the zombie's breast. Even though the spring had given the crossbow a good punch of power, the creature simply jerked with a pause and continued to advance. Riona now saw a horde of the same headless creature, it had somehow duplicated over and over. Her vision began to spin like as if she was looking through a kaleidoscope. She was more pissed now than before she set foot towards this endeavor.

"You brought friends eh?" The chirping of some insect briefly interrupted the moaning of the headless corpse for a few seconds. An almost comical pause had the monster the ability to comprehend humor.

She was out of it, seeing an army of undead where there was none.

She staggered to her feet quickly trying to load a bolt but found her fingers too uncoordinated for the task. The girl dropped the crossbow and stumbled several feet avoiding broken and half sunken tombstones as she put a bit of distance between herself and her target.

As the monster moved in with now springing speed, she closed her eyes and chanted the string of words inside her mind that had been the practice of several years.

Slowly a disruption of reality and distorted, mirrored vibrations in the space before her began to materialize an ethereal outline of a deadric dagger. Her hand grasped the handle as the resonance of the blade echoed throughout the cemetery. Transparent spectral flames emanated from her newly summoned weapon as she took a fighting stance and readied for the oncoming collision of the hellish creature. 

Arms flailing with the full intent of carnage, the porcelain zombie rushed the Brenton girl booming its demonic and inhuman sounds as it sprinted. Riona quick-stepped to the side and swung with all her might. Even drunk, the adrenaline rush she had gave her a spurt of energy and focus to slice a rotted arm clean off. A creepy sight it was, the creature tackled the back outer wall of the of the church making dust and pebbles fall from high above on impact. The severed limb wriggled and clawed at nothing in the air.

As the corpse regained its composure so too had the rouge. She took her stance once more and placed her blade before her. The strong muscular rotted legs advanced her opponent, she blinked several times trying to focus her dual vision of it before it had another chance to strike. The girl swung a moment too early and her chin was caught in the inside part of zombie's elbow and forearm sending her falling hard on her back. 

She knew she was in more danger than she could handle, she spun and rolled her body out of the way to avoid another clawed swing. She stammered up and flung her phantom blade at the monster's back right leg. The already uncoordinated corpse would have more trouble on its feet with sliced ligaments. Still, it had limitless reservoirs of endurance and strength, Riona knew she could not keep this up for long. Her face caught the back of the creature's fist as it struck her sending her falling backwards once more with her head slamming into a tombstone.

Pain shot from her skull and blood began to slowly trickle out of an open gash. Needless to say the concentration of her spell was broken and her ethereal weapon dispersed into thin air. A complaining moan escaped her lips as one of her hands rubbed her head. She was dazed and disoriented. 

The zombie limped and hopped on its good leg with an almost excited excited spring in each step. It got ready unleash a merciless attack upon the girl. If it could emote its actions, it would probably be making a fiendish howling.

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, the Old Roxey Cemetery -- Midyear, 4E 201


Gavinyarel watched as the woman struck first with a bolt to the zombie's breast, but he was unsurprised at the creature's unconcern. He was about to step in when she abandoned her crossbow, but was genuinely surprised when she conjured a sword in her hand. He paused and decided to see how she fared with her new weapon, which managed to rend the zombie's arm from its body and sever one of its legs partway up. Still, in her drunken state, the woman wasn't a match for the lumbering corpse.

When the zombie had her cornered against a headstone with her head bleeding, Gavinyarel moved in. He dashed toward the zombie, which was readying another slash with its remaining arm. As it swung, Gavinyarel countered just in time. His honed ebony blade, glowing orange with fire enchantment, sent the newly dismembered arm flying over the woman's head. The stump that remained was set ablaze. He punched the creature away with his free hand and then shot a jet of fire at it, turning it into a bright flare that lit up the surrounding area. Enraged, the zombie charged him in all its limping, disarmed frenzy. Gavinyarel dodged left and slashed at his midsection, shearing it in two. As the newly halved zombie collapsed to the ground, it's animation began to stop, whatever force had inspired its motion finally broken.

Gavinyarel took a large cloth from his pouch and wiped away the dust and rotten flesh from his sword before sheathing it. He looked back at the woman and smiled. "All right, I guess you're not quite as green as you seem." he said plainly, impressed by her knowledge of bound weapons.

Riona Galsette: The Roxey Village, the Old Roxey Cemetery -- Midyear, 4E 201

The young woman rubbed the back of her head feeling the wetness of the crimson liquid smear her hand. Her eyes grew heavy only seeing flashes of the scene that took place before her. The zombie was felled although in her head she had done the deed and liberated the Roxey Village from the undead menace. Her mind already began counting the septims she was owed. The last thing she saw was of an altmer standing not too far away from where she lay. She brought up her hand in a defensive gesture as if preparing for some malevolent and dirty action he may try towards her. It was bad enough that the heavy mist had swallowed most of her vision away as she lay there, but now her last thoughts were of unnerving anxiousness. 

Her arm only remained in the air for a second and then flopped resting over her torso as she blacked out. A low groan was the last thing heard as her consciousness drifted into nothingness. Whomever this man was or what his intentions were, she had no way of stopping, the Breton was at his mercy.

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, the Old Roxey Cemetery -- Midyear, 4E 201



Gavinyarel scowled in disgust at the burning remnants of the zombie. Undead were a unique sort to him, the physical types mostly rotten and reeking badly enough to turn a sturdy stomach. He then looked to the woman, who'd blacked out from her injuries. Damn it, don't die now...especially not from head-butting a tombstone. he thought as he rushed over to inspect her wounds.

Gavinyarel squatted down and examined her head wound, which was still gushing blood. He quickly pulled a large cloth and bandage out of his backpack and pressed against the wound in an effort try and stop the bleeding. It took a few minutes, but the blood at last began to clot, and Gavinyarel bound it up as best he could. He could clean it back at the inn.

With a grunt, he managed to hoist her over his shoulder and began the walk back to the inn. Luckily, his adrenaline didn't mind the extra weight, and he had her back at the inn quickly.

Gavinyarel shoved the door open with his free hand and went straight to the counter, ignoring the gawking patrons who stared in wonder at his injured cargo. "I need you to free up a room. Now." he said impatiently.

"Uh, yes, all right. Come with me." the old innkeeper said, leading the way up the stairs. He unlocked his only other available room, and Gavinyarel entered and set her on the bed.

"Get me a rag." Gavinyarel told the innkeeper before sending him off. He removed the bandage from the woman's head and took a small flask of ale from his belt. He dabbed his only other clean cloth with the ale and then pressed it against the wound to disinfect it as much as possible. After wiping the excess away, he wove a healing aura in his hand and pressed it against the wound. The parted skin slowly drew back together. The innkeeper returned with the rag, and after he finished with his healing spell, Gavinyarel bound it to where the wound was just to be safe. He'd had wounds reopen on him before, not something he considered fun at all.

Content he'd done all he could for the woman, Gavinyarel packed up his supplies and returned to his own room. After running his rags down to the innkeeper for cleaning and paying a night's stay for the woman, he crawled into his bed and tried to fall asleep. An hour ticked by without so much as a doze, but he was at last able to drift into an uneasy sleep.

Riona Galsette: The Roxey Village, The Roxey Inn. --4E 201

A low rumbled snore shifted in volume. High and low it went signaling the young woman's deep state of slumber. A slight whistle at the end of each exhaled breath marked a rhythmic tune in the quiet upstairs floor of the Roxey inn. Sweat in her palms and perspiration on her forehead flushed her body's remaining alcohol content out of her system. She dreamed of nothing that night save the few flash scenes of her exaggerated victory over the headless corpse.

The dream gave no credit or recollection of anyone else at the site nor would her subconscious allow it. She had slain the monster and was well deserving of her pay and the heroic deed actually marked her first ever job accomplished as a bonafide witchhunter, or so she believed.

-

Morning came with rays beaming down from the small window-like slits in the top of the room. The light was bright like a laser that only shone over her face and eyes. A red tinge of color was all she could see behind those tired eyelids as she did her best to slowly inch them open. A soft feminine groan fallowed by a stretch of the arms and a nice enjoyable yawn with the pleasurable pull of the back shoulder muscles were her first actions into the waking world full of reward money.

It only took about a couple seconds from the combined pain of a blistering, pounding headache of her injury and sore bottom to augment a sickening oversensitive hangover she began to suffer from. Both hands immediately clasped at her forehead, the thought of daring to feel the back of her scalp for the tombstone wound came to mind but it was all too much to even try.

Another hour was spent moaning in hushed complaints and cruses till she finally had enough strength to meet the day ahead of her.

She already knew she was in a room but had no idea that a good Samaritan had done her the favor of leading her back to the Inn. Since the details of last night were all blur, she assumed that she had paid her own stay and crashed soon after her conquest. She regretted the few pints of ale she had yes, but at least getting those hundred septims were something to look forward to. She fixed her self and groomed as much as any tomboy would to make her self a tad bit pretty over decent. Travel pack in her back, she marched down the stairs with puffed chest and a big attitude. Sure the migraine still lingered amd ached but it wasn't enough to stop her ego.

"Bartend, I've vanquished the pest and your local zombie has been destroyed." She said with a slight more arrogance than humble pride. "Of whom should should I collect my reward from?"

Both palms over the bar table and a large grin from ear to ear plastered on that small face of hers. Early rising patrons looking at her morning commotion, it wasn't a common thing to see such a scene. "my name will become renowned." she thought excitedly.

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, the Roxey Steakhouse -- 2 Midyear, 4E 201

Gentle morning sunbeams crept across the sleeping Altmer's face, until he finally stirred from his light slumber. He leaned up on one arm and cupped his eyes, rubbing them with his fingers. A long yawn escaped his lips. After standing and stretching, his mind woke up enough to remember the events of last night.

Gavinyarel hastily slipped on his boots and hurried downstairs in the hopes that he hadn't slept through the young lass's payment and departure. He doubted she understood the extent of her injury, and even youthful bodies had their limits. He knew that witchhunting wasn't the kind of profession to reward impatience or bravado...and he supposed that she'd have just become another number in the statistics of aspiring witchhunters that get themselves killed by going out of their depth, were it not for his rescue. True, a crossbow and a bound dagger was more equipment than he'd seen on most aspirants, but even the best tools fail in inexperienced hands. Heck, they sometimes failed even in masterful hands; he himself had faced certain death a few times during his career, and he'd learned painfully clearly that sometimes...all that separates one person's transcendence into the immortality of literature and song from another person's descent into nameless obscurity is sheer dumb luck.

An epiphany interrupted these musings when he was halfway down the stairs. Her crossbow! Damn it... In his haste to tend her wounds, he'd forgotten it at the cemetery. He hoped she wouldn't be too accusatory, but such hope was feeble against the commonness of petty theft on the road. All too often, allegations of people stealing misplaced items sparked needless brawls.

The elf made straight for the bar once downstairs, and, while relieved to see that the woman hadn't yet left, was taken aback by her boisterousness. In all her youthful spite of her body's condition, she appeared to demanding the bounty that'd been put on the zombie.

Well, I hate to ruin your little celebration, Miss, but I don't work for free whenever I can help it... "Hold on a moment there. You seem to be forgetting something, Miss." He tried to sound as little confrontational as possible, but he wanted those coins.

Riona Galsette: The Roxey Village, The Roxey Inn. --4E 201

The lively girl smiled from ear to ear despite the ringing in her noggin. The bartender had a sack of coins from the community collection he pulled out from a coffer underneath the counter and spoke. "Is the undead menace really gone?" His voice a mix of a strong yawn and surprise.

"Whatya take me for!?" The small woman's left eyebrow raised. Whit a gleam in her eye she made a swipe at the sack but a large burly man with a stained apron and greasy hand caught her wrist before she could claim the hold with her grubby little fingers. Before she could snap back at the larger male a stranger rose his voice to the main desk directed at her.

"Forget what!" She barked with her smile contorted to bare her fangs. An old elf now came into the trading of words with his own to throw in. Riona was not happy. To her, it all of a sudden seemed like these country bumpkin were out to chest her out of coin and dignity. A step back and a hand on her knife, she took to all those close by with an angered look. "Not men enough for the undead but more than macho for a small girl!?" Terrible judge of character and even worse at body language the Breton thought herself swindled yet again for her small stature.

"You no-good-"

Her fist gripped thin air as she felt her prized crossbow missing at her side. A sinking feeling made a heavy presence in her stomach as she realized the unfair odds she was up against but before she could spit another curse the barman spoke; "No need for any of that here." His eyes sharpened on her blade and the larger male clutched a rolling pin. "Show us the body of the creature and due pay is well earned."

Like a tone of steel his words settled her ire. Quick though it may have been, she had been cheated times before and would not allow another notch of stupidity mark her belt.

"Animal." An elderly woman scoffed at the riled brunette as she passed the front counter with broom in hand beginning her morning chore. Riona's face flashed from red to a light pinkish color. The women folk eyed her unruly demeanor with batting eyes and murmurs that required no guessing to the eye. Twice now the girl had made a scene of herself with ill conclusions and twice her embarrassment served as a punishment for the awkward exchange.

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, the Roxey Steakhouse -- Midyear 2, 4E201

Gavinyarel could only watch the events unfold with drained eyes. Still, he supposed being naturally feisty had its merits -- something to be said for not taking crap from anyone. He wordlessly followed the others along the path to the cemetery and over to the charred remains of the zombie. He dearly hoped her crossbow lay undamaged nearby, as his heart sank at the prospect of witnessing the kind of hell she'd raise over the destruction of her best weapon. Of course, he'd get the blame since he was the one vying for half the bounty.

In an effort to preserve the calmness as long as possible, the Altmer decided to plead his case first. "This zombie has obviously been burned to a crisp...and for that to happen, it would have had to have met with a fire of some kind, yes? I don't see the remnants of any torches or other physical fire sources around, so that leaves magic..." He proceeded to conjure a fireball in his hand and jet the flame a little outward in few different directions. He ended with a small burst of fire. 'Twas inexpensive child's play for someone of his experience to give such a demonstration, and he knew simple village folk hadn't the heads for differentiating between playing with a little fire and conjuring a blast sufficient to immolate a body. "I'm obviously more than capable of lighting something on fire without material aid. Now, unless this young lady here can indicate she could've done the same, I'm insisting I get half the coin for this. She was here, yes...and she did do some damage, but she wasn't alone."

The innkeeper rubbed and scratched his head for a while, clearly thinking harder than he was used to. Finally, he turned toward the woman and asked, "Alright Missy, what say you?"

The elf stood with pursed lips and folded arms, praying he was being understood. Every now and then, he'd glance around at the odd brown shape on the ground in the hopes it was the crossbow.

With no food and no septims, self-sufficiency would be the only answer that made any sense. No, he did not have a bow. No, he did not have arrows. There were always alternatives, however, and he knew one of his favorites to be good for these such circumstances. It took him about a half hour to clean up his camp, pack his bag, fully clothe, stamp out the fire, and pray. In that particular order. The only sign that he had ever been there was a smear of clouded funnel cap paste, drawn in a circle on a stone. The sun was not yet risen.

Then, he busied himself. He needed food, and this region was sure to be plentiful and rich with food. One way or another. The goal was meat, though he'd settle for something else if he needed to. Preparation was simple: a paralysis paste on the tip of the iron short sword he carried. Not the edge. He needed the edge to open a wound on his target, and the paste to keep the thing still after forcing it to turn its neck up. Keep the bleed out quick and efficient, and keep the hunt quick. The goal was to avoid exhaustion while also managing one's stores. He didn't need much paste, which was to his benefit as he hadn't been collecting much while he was coming down South. His goal had been to escape the chaos up North, so slowing himself down made little sense.

The next step for the hunt was the right disguise, followed soon after by the right knowledge. He took some time to coat himself in snow, especially on his shoulders and head. That would enable him to hide in a snow mound and wait, while not fussing so much over details. The information that he gathered next was a trail. He found fresh tracks, which took about a half hour, and then a mound along those tracks. He burrowed into the mound with startling efficiency, then used his hands to dig a little pit out for his eyes. Now, he was obscured and could see the trail. Touch it, if he really wanted to. Then, it was waiting.

When a large male Elk came into view, he could still feel his finger tips. The creature pressed its head into the ground, and pushed away snow. It came up with grass. When it went down again, the Reachman moved. He jerked forward in a practiced manner, he had frequently taken down bandits and Forsworn with this such method, and tackled at the thing. He aimed not for where its antlers were, but for where they would be.

His calloused, fur-clad hands found grip at the bases of the antlers. The animal immediately moved Southwest, while Bruoch pulled himself up onto its back. Twice he nearly lost purchase when the thing stopped and bucked. He, perhaps through luck or his own deep reserves of energy, had managed to maintain a grip while making progress all the same.

It carried him downhill, slamming its side into the occasional passing tree in an attempt to dismount the Reachman. He maintained grip, however, and finally managed to draw out his sword. With his left hand and his thighs he tightened his grip on the creature. Leaning forward, being wary of the antlers, he pulled the blade against the animal's throat. It coughed out a howl of pain. The sun was up, now, and casting light down onto the display. Downhill through the trees rode Bruoch, on the bleeding elk. He transferred his blade to his teeth, and scooted forward on the thing's back. While it jerked its neck around he found his right hand grip once again. Once obtained, he grabbed the Elk by the lower neck with his left leg. His right leg was raised up, pressing down on the Elk's right flank for support.

With his position secured by the odd but practiced lock, he took his blade in his right hand once again. Rather than stabbing down onto the Elk, he readied to stab downwards onto its back legs. In one movement he adjusted, jerking the Deer's head back and tripping it. As the pair fell, both now thoroughly bloodied, he plunged the iron sword's tip into the creature's ass. The rigidity was nearly immediate. It spread quickly, and the Creature lost control as its muscles went tight. Bruoch pulled himself in, hugging tight to the Elk's back, as it cartwheeled about thirty feet down the snowy hill and breached the treeline.

After bouncing once, the creature toppled a headstone. Bruoch, covered in blood and fur and snow, pushed away from the paralyzed deer and scrambled for the nearest stone. He settled on one from a Nord cairn, and moved on the Elk. With three swift strikes, he bashed its head in.

Its limbs began to slowly go limp, as the paralysis wore off of the dead body.

The Reachman looked around, assessing his new environment. When his eyes rested on an Imperial man, an elf, and the Breton girl, he laughed. The energy and flowing enthusiasm left him otherwise speechless. He kicked the deer onto its side, and pulled back his headdress. The ugly Breton-looking man was smiling, and his face had managed to smear itself a bit in the blood of the animal. From his fur belt he pulled a long, thin-looking dirk, and began to cut effortlessly through the deer. His goal at the moment, regardless of the strangers, was to ensure that the meat he wanted was covered with snow and in his bag. These folk looked like they were from one of the settlements in the area, or from settlements in general, but he could never truly tell when Hircine was going to send challengers following a particularly efficient hunt.

After he had made some of the major cuts and rubbed the blood on his face, as he did so often, he pulled his headdress back up. Perhaps rubbing the blood on his face wasn't the smartest idea. His face began to lose a bit of feeling, but he worked through it. The smear was going to wear out here soon anyhow, so he wasn't worried. He'd make due if these folks insisted on conversation. Worst case scenario he was forced to defend himself and hid their bodies out in the woods and claimed no connection to the deaths. Head and fingers would have to be removed. Heart for safety purposes.

No. That was planning ahead. Certainly they'd be more startled than anything. He hadn't been aggressive towards them. Unless, perhaps, they were game-keepers. With that thought, he looked up and scowled, before continuing to open up the deer. If they were game-keepers he'd definitely have to kill them. Hircine's blessing was always upon him, as he was a man of the Reach. There would be absolutely no reason to risk rubbing up against the law and losing supplies and time.

_{@SoulChrysamere@Mixcoatl}

The start of Fendryn's adventure had started off disappointingly normal compared to the stories he'd been told has a child of great heroes who wondered off to accomplish great deeds. He'd woken up at dawn and said his farewell's to his family and friends and set off heading towards Cheydinhal and then from there, he went down The Blue Road heading west. The only exciting part about his day was seeing The Imperial City from a distance. Fendryn had never seen anything quite like it. He'd heard about it before but the description had never done it any justice. When he arrived at the end of The Blue road and could only go right or left with The Imperial City towering in front of him, he just stood there for a while taking in the sights before going right.

A few more hours had gone by when he reached a small village with a sign coming from the biggest building there that read, 'Roxey Inn and Steakhouse'. The sun was slowly going down and it wouldn't be long until it was dark so he didn't see any harm in using some of his money that his Mother had given him to buy some food and a room for the night. Fendryn thought he'd be spending enough time sleeping in camps when he finally became a soldier for the Empire so he'd make the most of sleeping on an actual bed whilst he could.

The rest of the night nothing out of the ordinary happened apart from when Fendryn got his meal of a roast chicken. It was the most he'd ever eaten in his life. He was close to bursting as he slid down the chair and put a hand on his belly and sighed. With the heat from the fire and his full belly, Fendryn could feel his eyes getting heavy. It didn't take him much longer to get up off the seat and head towards his room for an early night. As he stood, he noticed another elf hidden away in the corner eating. Fendryn was surprised to see another elf being in a small town in Cyrodiil but he paid it no mind and headed off to his room passing a young Breton girl who'd just wondered in.

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As dawn arrived, Fendryn slowly woke up stretching and letting out a long, slow yawn. He sighed as he got out of bed and started to put his clothes on and gather the rest of his equipment together. When he arrived into the main room were the only person who was up before him was the innkeeper himself. Fendryn paid for two fried eggs and some sausages as he waited patiently on one of the tables closest to the bar. He closed his eyes and started to hum a song quietly until the food was brought to him. The food so far was the favourite part of the adventure to Fendryn, if he was still at home he'd have only been given a little bit of bland porridge which he hated.

As he tucked into his breakfast the Breton girl that he'd passed the night before, came into view looking a lot worse for wear and heading straight to the barkeeper. Fendryn was only half paying attention to conversation until he heard the girl say zombie. His head shot up from his meal and started to listen to the conversation. Fendryn didn't believe what he was hearing. A zombie? He didn't even believe they were real, just a story people made up in horror stories to frighten each other. As his head started to wonder thinking of what it looked like, an elf interrupted the girl telling how he had helped her and the innkeeper was only giving the money after he'd seen the corpse.

The three left the inn together and within a minute Fendryn was following them, he wanted to finish off his breakfast first, he didn't want somebody eating it while he wasn't there. It didn't take him long to find to find them with the village only being small. He arrived at an abandoned church and saw the three of them hovering around a completely burnt body. Fendryn was pretty disappointed with it purely because it was unrecognizable and burnt to a crisp. There was just bits of the body scattered about the place. It did make Fendryn a little queasy though seeing the body. He only just managed to keep his breakfast down as he started to walk around to get a closer look. After a few yards, he still hadn't took his eyes off the zombie and nearly fell over a piece of wood. As he looked to see what it was, it turned out to be a crossbow not just a piece of wood. As he went to pick it up an elk flew through the tree line and crashed near them with someone holding on to it.

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Cemetery, The Roxey Village -- Midyear 2, 4E201

Gavinyarel instinctively drew his blade and wheeled around at the sound of disturbed wood behind him. He beheld a tall Dunmer half about to pick up a piece of wood that seemed to have some metal bits attached to it. Ah, the girl's crossbow!

No sooner had that thought flashed through his mind and his mouth prepared a greeting for the unexpected Dunmer did a ruckus tear through the edge of the woods and out in front of the whole group. Gavinyarel, the innkeeper, and the lass all shrank back a couple of steps in surprise, which must have amused the strange man, judging by the laugh he produced. They all witnessed him start ritualistically dressing and harvesting the animal, which made it difficult for the innkeeper to keep from retching his guts. Even Gavinyarel, with all he'd seen and even done over the decades of romping about in the wilds, felt his stomach slightly churn at the sight.

"Okay..." the innkeeper began, suddenly having found a sliver of his wits, "look, I ain't got no time for dealing with crap like this, alright? I got an inn to run." He produced a large coinpurse containing the bounty payment and haphazardly divided it into two smaller pouches. He then threw one of the pouches at the Altmer's feet and the other at the Breton girl's feet. "There, now get your things and be on your way! And take...him with you..." His gaze shifted to the strange hunter with the last sentence. He then retreated back to the inn, doubtlessly, Gavinyarel guessed, to hide from the hunter until he'd distanced himself from the village.

Gavinyarel scooped up the pouch and played with it for a couple of seconds. A little light for fifty drakes, he thought, but he forgave the innkeeper's lack of accuracy given the circumstances. He eyed the hunter curiously, for he'd seen such displays before. Not anywhere close to this side of the Jeralls, though.

"Hail, hunter. I must thank you for expediting our little discussion here. Where might you be from?" He hoped that friendly words would beget a friendly response. The back of his mind had a guess as to the man's identity, but they weren't exactly near the Reach.

@Parzivol @josephb

The Forsworn continued to work, cutting cleanly through the corpse with his dagger. It glowed faintly, indicating some sort of magick was set upon it. When finally the hunter found the words, he did so slowly and with a bit of distaste in his mouth. Despite being a manmer himself, Bruoch had no intention of becoming too friendly with the latter half of his racial namesake. One could imagine the backlash that he, a Daedra worshiper, would have received from knife-eared folk of all kinds. His own ignorance left little difference in his mind between a Dunmer and an Altmer. He'd never even heard of Maomer. He'd only met one Bosmer. His experience was limited, so his prejudice was broad.

"Keep your thanks to yourself. I'm from the Reach. A little nook in the hills between Falkreath Hold and the Reach my family called Hircine's Cradle." His tone was aggressive, and matter-of-fact. As if it should have been known simply by looking at him. Truth be told one probably could know simply by looking at him, but asking questions has harmed few. "I care less for where you... One, two, three? Three are from and more where you go. Heading South or moving North? Though... Only two pouches? Looks like you aren't all together."

His dislike of mer was still superficial at most, and he knew it.

So, the least he could consider doing was warning them of the civil war and of the witches hold up in the mountains in the south of Falkreath Hold and the very southern edge of Whiterun Hold. Hags and Hagravens weren't unlikely to cause problems for this handful.

Sure, one might say they look capable enough. Frankly though, he didn't care. Plenty of people look capable. Plenty of people end up being used to feed the alchemic pursuits of witches, too.

Finally, he stood up straight. While he was mostly obscured in his headdress, a little bit of the glint of his eyes could be seen. "You've all heard about the rebellion up North, I assume? That's a place I'd suggest against going towards. War is bad for just about everything but brigands and bounty hunters. Though perhaps none of you take issue with that latter portion.

He drifted closer, inspecting the burns and the corpse. The tracks along the ground. Those from the night before and from this morning.

"This kill is older than a few hours. Man shaped but no head it looks like? No head nearby. A zombie, I'd bet? Whoever uses the crossbow couldn't do much to it, then the mage, mages, or witch burnt the thing down?" The man tossed out his guess, being careful to avoid assumptions. Internally though, he had an idea of who was who. One of the elves was the pyromancer, but only one of them. Little suggested that a third non-zombie combatant had been in the area.

Perhaps the Dunmer? They tended to drift towards magic. Fire especially, considering their own immunities to the stuff. This one had a bow, though. There were no arrows, only the remains of bolts. A Nightblade, certainly, but no indication of magic. The girl, however, was another story altogether. She had a bolt quiver.

The crossbow was hers.

Which left the Altmer. The gross thing was probably the mage that did the fire damage.

"Let me guess, actually. Zombie breaks out of a crypt and harasses a local villager and someone calls for aid. The woman shows up, and tries to shoot a dead thing as if that will have any sort of impact on it." He bends down, and feels across the corpse's breast, before finding the impact point of the crossbow bolt that had entered its breast. He put three fingers into the wound, and pulled a charred bolt-head from the creature's injury. "High-And-Mighty Elf shows up and burns the zombie to the point where it can no longer move and the animation ends as a result. If it was indeed an animation and not a natural occurrence. Our friend the Ash-Face either chose to not be involved in the fight, or only now arrived with you all. Innkeeper fulfills the bounty payment between two of you, meaning I'd bet that the Dark Elf is a recent arrival to the scene."

He was showing off. Of course he was. There were elves here and he felt quite the need to display a little bit. Time and time again he'd seen Elves act in a way that was contrary to the good of others. He couldn't help but resent that, and saw himself as righteously and kindly displaying the grandeur of his own kith.

"How right am I? Wrong?" He set his dagger in its place on his bag, then placed his hands on his waist.

@SoulChrysamere@josephb@Mixcoatl

As everyone stood around watching the man ritualistically butcher the elk, it was the innkeeper who first broke the silence after turning very pale. He chucked two pouches to the other twos feet and ran back towards the inn as quickly as he could move. Fendryn didn't really blame him for wanting to leave as quick as possible, the dark elf had grown up watching animals being skinned and butchered, even doing some himself, but the way in which the unknown man had cut apart the animal didn't make Fendryn feel well.

When the innkeeper was out of sight, the Altmer tried to start a conversation with him trying to break the slight tension that was in the air. The answer the high elf got was a rather arrogant one, but as he wandered around inspecting the scene and piecing it together was fascinating to watch, Fendryn couldn't help but be very impressed wishing he could do that himself.

His admiration for the mans skills disappeared as he soon as he said the phrase, 'Ash-Face.' Fendryn knew it was an insult to his race but he'd never heard someone actually use it before.

"Ash-Face?" Fendryn said in shock. Straight away Fendryn felt on edge being around him. The man was dressed like a barbarian and Fendryn had no idea what he could be capable of. He tossed the crossbow towards the girl so his right hand was free in case he had to grab an arrow to fire at the Breton.

Carefully, like a nix-hound closing on a wounded guar or an aged and diseased nix-ox, the Reachman moved forward. Each motion was dog-like, and loping. He pressed upon the Dunmer's space and flourished. Arms up and outward, eyes forward and focused. Burning like wisps behind the grotesque mask of skin and bone.

"Ash-Face." Once he had repeated the words, he clapped his hands against his various furs as if cleaning them. "Don't mind it too much. Don't get too Red about it. I'm sure there may be a Year and place where your people are seen as strong and reasonable. Not just you, though. Knife-Eared loons and witches all alike might be worth respecting with proper names, one day." His focus on red and year was a surprisingly aware jab at the all too recent crisis of the Dunmer.

"Though if you have a name, I'll call you for it. If you shall share it." Carefully, the man moved away. His focus was now split between packing the deer up in all its valuable bits, and conversing with the strangers. "The only thing I know better than Skyrim and her routes is the respect of a name."

@josephb@SoulChrysamere@Mixcoatl