Jeddaven

N.E.O. - New Earth Oracle

Porto de Santos, Brazil

AI observes the event occurring while it's still incredibly minor, manages to save the whole convoy by giving them this warning

Campbell hated escort duty. It was a rare thing, but almost always horrifically boring, involving little more than sitting in an armored truck (or personnel carrier) as a convoy moved along city or rural roads, both waiting for and hoping something wasn’t going to happen. He faintly remembered the few times something exciting happened.

Occasionally, that’d mean scrambling out of the vehicle he and his squad had been stuck in, cooking a mutant jungle cat to ash with an experimental plasma rifle while First Lieutenant Caldeira
roasted a swarm of overgrown insects with a flamethrower; other times, it meant watching from inside of an IFV while their autocannons vaporized some unfortunate, especially large mutant that was in the way.

“Hey, First Lieutenant. You remember the last time one of these actually went badly?” Elliot asked. All at once, the two remaining sets of eyes in the fireteam turned toward the giant of a woman in her armor - with no need for jungle camouflage, they’d been clad in thick grey combat uniforms, armor plates slung over top experimental exoskeletons. It was based on the French shit, they’d been told, and it worked, but the batteries still weren’t up for snuff. You could still hear the things whirr when people moved, too - even when they simply turned to face someone.

She tilted her head to one side for a moment, probably chewing her lip behind her helmet as the armored Rheinmetall truck trundled along beneath them. It was a smooth ride, at least - he couldn’t even feel the potholes.

“Don’t really remember, exactly. Almost six months? I mean, we’ve had firefights, but it’s mostly just killing animals already half-dead from NLC exposure and shit.” She shrugged, her arms slung over the IMBEL machinegun in her lap, a bulky box magazine between her legs. To Campbell, it almost sounded like she was complaining.

“Hey, why don’t you ask Oh-Seven? Doesn’t it record all that stuff?” Came a small voice from the seat next to him. Diaz shrugged.

“Oh-Seven, how long has it been since the last... Major incident?”

“It has been approximately five months, twenty-eight days, three hours, and-”

“That’s enough.” Campbell sighed, leaning back in his seat. He stared across the truck’s compartment at Otávio, obsessively combing through a bag of medical supplies, then at Adalia and her long-barreled rifle, and found himself wondering how the hell he’d gotten here.

He missed Windsor. It’d been years since he’d been home, and as much as Brazil had become a home to him much like it had for Adalia, but he still missed home. It still felt wrong not being there, especially now, with his friends and even some of his family throwing off the American yoke. He missed travelling a hop skip and a jump across the border to the Detroit megacity, on those few occasions when he could visit the American friends he had there. He missed the first time he travelled through the highway tunnel. He missed exploring the Ojibway parks. He missed the Tim Hortons apple fritters. Hell, through his haze of nostalgia, he even missed his fucking training sergeant. The man wasn’t awful, but... Still, was he going insane? Maybe, he thought. He could’ve been at home. He and Adalia could’ve been in their home countries, he thought, fighting for freedom, but instead he was sitting in an armored german truck staring at a stupid goddamn box with some stupid goddamn bullshit inside.

He noticed Enéas looking at him, staring as he was, or... he thought he did. He couldn’t tell beneath the faceless, thick-lensed helmets they all wore, and especially not the extra bulk of his grenadier’s armor. Usually, Enéas was more talkative, but... Today, he was quiet. Maybe he was thinking the same thing? Was the cabin fever getting to him too?

All he knew was that, in that moment, he hated that fucking black box that held whatever the hell it held inside of it. What was it, he wondered? A sparkling purple alien dildo? Some weird alien supergun? Something’s brain? Probably something to do with all the FTL news going around? Probably, he guessed. It’d been some time since he’d heard of an artifact escort that involved multiple cannon-armed IFVs, on top of a police escort, on top of police helicopters watching from the sky. The internal cover story was that it was a transport of a large volume of unusually concentrated Langium, and while his team was informed they were transporting an artifact, they hadn’t been told exactly what it was. That meant it was incredibly, ludicrously important. He hoped so, at least.

“Captain Campbell, please tighten the locking clamps on the containment unit. I am detecting an unusual outward distortion of the truck’s chassis.” Intoned Oh-Seven’s voice.

“What are you talking abou-”

Suddenly the truck bounced, as if it’d run over a bump the size of a beachball. Elliot stumbled forward, reaching for the containment unit in a panic - yet as he advanced toward it, he felt it pushing back against him, forcing him back against the wall like the rest of his comrades. It was like he was trying to grind a train to a halt with his bare hands, and yet...

The exoskeleton’s servos audibly whined, but he managed to grip one of the locking clamps nonetheless, barely able to hold himself there.

I am not getting pancaked because of some goddamn alien trashpile! Come one, come on...

Wrenching his hand to one side with a grunt of effort, he turned the lock... And, suddenly, all the force pressing against him evaporated, coaxing sighs of relief from everyone inside the vehicle.

“Oh-Seven, what the fuck just happened? How did you notice what was happening?” He asked, audibly gasping.

“I was assigned to monitor the vehicles outside of my usual mission parameters, and noticed an unexplained physical distortion in the upper chassis.”

“Fuck. I felt that thing pushing back on me. What the hell happened?” He groaned, rubbing at his helmet.

I wonder what it was like before all of this alien bullshit.

alpine republic

<Snipped quote by Jeddaven>

Your mom's an Obama prism

@Yam I Am

Yes

alpine republic

<Snipped quote by Dinh AaronMk>

@Yam I Am

It begins

alpine republic

<Snipped quote by Jeddaven>

we must all combined our forces to end the threat of the obama prism

@Keyguyperson

death

War Never Changes III: Annals of the East

A Collab between @Jeddaven and @Andronicus23

"You ever think about what it was like here before the war, man?" Achak whistled, leaning back into the creaky, wooden chair beneath him as he sucked down gulps of delectably pristine water from his canteen, drops of sweat listening on his youthful, lightly tanned face. His uniform, coloured with muted summer greens and browns, was far less pristine, spattered with muck, dust, and grime.

"Backwater and dilapidated, you mean?" The man next to him scoffed, dressed similarly, a freshly machined assault rifle planted in his lap. He looked about the same age, perhaps a day or two older - but Alex's skin was so deathly pale Achak wondered if he'd ever even been outside as a kid. He was one of the few people in the unit who needed to reapply sunscreen over and over and over again, after all.

Achak rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean, asshole. I mean, there’s the ghouls first of all. Then there’s the walls, the defensive ditches, the barbed wire... This used to be a peaceful little rural town, now it’s an isolated hamlet in upstate New York that’s constantly fighting off... Raiders and shit.”

Alex shrugged, downing a mouthful from his canteen. “I don’t really know, man...” He said, gesturing at the thick, wooden palisades about the small highway-side

---

K5-45 had made her way down from Far Harbor towards what her pre-war maps had indicated was once the state of New York , part of The New England Commonwealths. Her journey through the rural Northern Wastes had not been an easy one and without the enhanced senses and survival capabilities that came with being a Gen-3 Synth, she doubted she’d have survived the trek. Raiders, hostile tribals, and all manner of unknown creatures had harried her way all along the coast. She regularly sent back valuable reports to The Institute, who’d been keen on her descriptions of various local groups in the region but were also increasingly interested in fragments of information she’d gathered on the nation known as ‘Ronto’.

Ronto wasn’t completely unknown to the people of Far Harbor. Apparently every once in a great while a trader or merchant vessel who was familiar with it would stop in at the port town to trade and resupply. As such a few known Rontonian goods had made their way into their hands: beer housed in squat glass bottles, a few distinct firearms, and other various knicknacks were all prized by the Harborfolk for their uniqueness. However beyond their wares there was little more to go on. Ronto was known to be a large nation somewhere up North with a reputation for its military might. That alone was enough to pique The Director’s interest. Such people would be highly desirable to have as allies should the rumours prove true.

Following the directions given by a tribal tracker had led her now to an apparent frontier settlement of the Rontonian people. Standing before the palisade, it was clear that, despite probably being a relatively unimportant backwater, the town was well fortified and garrisoned. That certainly gave the impression that the rumours were all too true. Dressed as she was in a far harbor woodsmen outfit, she would certainly stand out as someone who wasn’t a local, but her appearance would not immediately give away who, and more importantly what, she truly was.

K5 made her way towards a pair of longing men who appeared to be soldiers, and approached them cautiously,

“Hello, my name is Kendra….I’m from a town aways to the north of here. I was hoping to rest a bit and resupply, but If you’d be willing to take me to someone in charge, I’d also like to speak about if there’s any way we might establish some kind of trade relationship. A caravan route perhaps?” K5 looked awkwardly about her, trying to find some way to throw something in that might be a tag more convincing, “I’m guessing this is some kind of outpost settlement...so I assume you might be interested in such an offer?”

Stilted and clumsy, she thought. K5 nearly let out a muffled curse. She’d been Scav-team guard, not an infiltrator, back at The Institute. Interacting with the human surface-dwellers in casual conversation was hardly something she had regular experience with. All she could hope was that she’d sounded genuine enough to not get thrown out...

Achak glanced at Alex, and Alex at Achack, the two men exchanging confused, slightly surprised glances. They didn’t speak, but the thoughts exchanged didn’t need to be spoken - it wasn’t often that strangers approached them asking to establish a trade relationship. Every once in a while, a scrap dealer tried to talk their guns away from them, but... Clearly, this was different.

Silent, Alex pushed himself to his feet, nodding at Achak. The darker-skinned man followed, quietly clearing his throat as a small caravan of Brahmin passed by them - caravans were a regular sight in roadside towns like these, roadside truck stops that had little reason to exist aside from service stations for people travelling cross-country. That meant there was little of not there, even after the war - but it also meant that even the Chinese military wasn’t all that willing to expend nuclear warheads on such tiny, insignificant towns. In the post-nuclear wasteland, however, such waystations became vastly more valuable, many such places fortified just like this one.

“Just a moment, ma’am - to the north of here, you said? I’m guessing you’re not from under the great lakes, so... Vermont? Maine?” Achak asked, while Alex reaching for a small, worn walkie-talkie at his belt, displaying the past of Ronto’s flag just below his right shoulder on his uniform, contrasting sharply with the warm, greenish brown of his jacket.

“Maine, yes, a town along the coast there,” K5 replied quickly.

Offering a nod in greeting, Alex stepped away - to get in touch with the outpost’s commanding officer, he assumed - leaving him to engage the traveller in conversation. “My colleague shouldn’t be more than a minute, maybe two - protocols to go by, yknow, to get you in touch with the right people. It’s a good thing you got here when you did. There’s a whole lot of them in these parts, eh?” He nodded, gesturing to the assault rifle in his hands. Unlike many such things in the wasteland, though this one had clearly seen some use, it was relatively free of grime, and the rounded, stamped metal body didn’t particularly resemble any pre-war American designs. Instead, it looked like a strange hybrid of a mishmash of pre-war rifles, as though someone had torn up a bunch of blueprints and mixed them together.

“A whole lot of what?” K5 asked sheepishly, looking about her from side to side, “Raiders you mean? Yes...I had a heck of a time navigating through trying to keep away from them. But traveling by myself let me keep a low profile and I mostly stuck to roads and trails off the beaten path, it was easy enough to slip through their checkpoints. As violent and unpredictable as they can be, you can still learn their patterns and behaviors well enough to keep yourself safe.”

K5 looked back at Achak, noticing the look he was giving her, “I uh...that is to say. I suppose I was mostly just lucky really.”

"You sound like the Pathfinders, Miss Kate." Achak chuckled. "Suppose you can - I mean, we're all trained how to deal with raiders - but it's usually not us frontline infantry that are huntin' down raiders, eh? That's the Pathfinders and the Mounties." He said, snapping his fingers.

“Pathfinders?” She looked confused. Something told K5 she needed to make a note of this and include it in her first contact report.

" Ah, that's right! You might not know - Pathfinders are the boys in charge of securing trade routes and recon. Mounties is slang for our Federal Police!" He said, smiling. "If you're lucky, you'll get to see one in their dress uniform. Bright red jacket, big brimmed hats..." He whistled, reaching down for his belt to grab a quick sip of water from his canteen.

"Maine, you said you were from? What's the name of the tow-"

" S'cuse me, ma'am." Came the sound of the other man's voice, mercifully interrupting Alex. "You're in luck. There's a woman from the Trade Department in town today - border security's going to run you through a basic security exam before you meet her, though. Nothing invasive - just a quick scan for weapons and explosives, if you'll follow me?" He said, gesturing down the cracked sidewalk running along the road cutting through the center of town.

“Of course, of course,” K5 nodded, “No problem at all. Please, lead the way.”

---

Thankfully, the journey didn't take terribly long. The soldier led K5 down the dusty road, along a shoddy - yet shockingly well maintained - sidewalk, past a handful of old buildings and numerous caravans passing through the small town, eventually stopping at a small, white-painted structure, the words "DEPARTMENT OF TRADE AND IMMIGRATION" Emblazoned across its front in big, red letters. He pushed open the door and led her into the structure, two similarly dressed soldiers standing to either side.

Inside, however, security was even more tight - a handful of armed men and women milled about, dressed variably in either military uniforms or bright, scarlet-red jackets and wide-brimmed stetson hats. K5 was quickly ushered through a metal detector, her possessions temporarily confiscated, and then led into a room down an adjoining hallway.

It was a simply-appointed thing - a few chairs lined the sides, and two armed, scarlet-jacketed officers stood to either side of the inside of the door, bulky revolvers at their hips. The man and women were silent, almost deathly still, briefly turning only to watch K5 enter and for the door to quietly swing shut behind her.

Across the white room, sitting behind a light golden-brown desk, was a a middle-aged man with pale skin, a pearly-white smile sitting below a pair of dull green eyes meeting her. For all his age, the man looked to be relatively fit, though far from muscular, simply in good physical condition. Clearing his throat, he reached up to switch off the radio set on his desk. "Special Envoy Callum MacDonald - it's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am." He said, gesturing for her to take a seat in the plush, somewhat worn leather chair opposite him. "I'm told you're from a community in Maine, seeking to trade relations? I'm not sure how much you know about Ronto, but I'd be happy to answer your questions to the best of my ability, as long as you can do the same. Does that sound fair?"

“My name is Kenda and yes, I’m happy to oblige,” K5 replied with a nervous smile. A slow panic began to set in for her as she realized that she had no idea where to go from here. The method of how to approach the Rontonians she’d known, but now what should she say to their Envoy? She had no clue...nothing had been told to her about what to say or how to say it. Should she divulge the nature of The Institute? Inform them directly about her mission? Her mind was abuzz with fear and concern.

And then suddenly, cold logic washed over her and replaced her fears and trepidation with precise knowledge. She felt an innate pull within her synthetic mind as the preconditions for this new subroutine were met. She stood up and her expression dulled, then her eyes went glassy. To the Rontonians, it was like she was becoming possessed.

“People of Ronto,” K5 began, the voice emanating from her quite different from the one she’d been speaking with, though still female, “Standing before you is unit K5-45, one of our Synths: synthetic humanoids constructs. If you are hearing this message, then the unit has achieved its designated mission and made contact with a member of significant enough status within your nation. We are The Institute: a group of likeminded scientists and engineers who seek to redefine the human condition. To uplift us to a world beyond the dregs of the apocalypse. We seek your cooperation and friendship to safeguard our future. The Synth standing before you is proof of the scientific accomplishments of our Institute: and an invitation to discover more. Should you have questions, the Synth will now be primed to answer them. If what you hear is intriguing enough, you may ask the Synth to put you into contact with us or arrange for a face to face meeting. We look forward to such correspondence. K5-45….reset personality matrix.”

With that, K5 slumped over, her arms and torso hanging limp while her feet remained in place. After a brief few seconds, she stood back up straight and came to a parade rest position, with her hands clasped behind her back,

“Unit K5-45 at your service,” she stated, her voice had returned but it remained emotionless and cold. Her previous nervousness and awkwardness was completely gone and replaced with an almost sterile visage.

The RCMP officers, throughout it all, maintained their stoic visages - for the most part, at least. The sudden change in K5's attitude was disturbing to say the least, but they'd been trained to remain cool and collected in far more traumatic situations, their hands reaching toward (but not grasping) their revolvers.

The Envoy, on the other hand, hadn't. He was a mere diplomat, and not a soldier, his combat training limited to resisting interrogation by Raiders and little else. By the time K5 had finished her abrupt speech, the poor man's chair had scooted a whole two feet back, his pupils shrink into pinpricks for fear that the 'synth' - whatever that was - might've been about to explode.

He quickly realized, however, that that made absolutely no sense for a diplomat, and that he was not, in fact, busy being exploded into (at least) a few million pieces.

Clearing his throat, he pushed his chair back into its place as the RCMP officers watched, noting the positions of their hands. Hopefully, if the 'synth' did turn hostile, their high-caliber revolvers would be able to put it down quickly enough.

"Kendra... K5... K5... I'll start with a few questions, I suppose. That message you just delivered. Was it transmitted to you, or preprogrammed?" He asked, quickly sketching out a few notes on his notepad. This encounter definitely warranted an extensive report.

"Second... Synths. Your people call them synthetic humanoids, but our metal detectors didn't find anything. Does that mean you're biological?"

He sighed. This was going to be a very strange day, and the eggheads at the University of Toronto were almost definitely going to interrogate him about it later.

“The message was the result of a pre-programmed subroutine, which ran once its preconditions were met.” K5 replied stoically, “As regards your second question, I can only confirm that a metal detector would not work as a method of detection. Any further questions on the Gen-3 Synth program should be communicated to the Director.”

Something they wanted to keep secret, then, he assumed. Disappointing but expected, considering how advanced this sort of technology would necessarily have to be. "Gen-3" implied a third iteration (at least)... Ethical implications aside, he was here to gather information, not to condemn these people.

"On to the easier questions, I suppose. How is the "Institute" governed? Ronto is a parliamentary democracy."

K5 nodded and answered quickly back, “The Institute is governed by The Directorate, a board of scientists consisting of the heads of each of The Institute’s research and operation divisions. The Directorate sets policy, defines rules and regulations, and allocates Institute resources. While mostly autonomous within their own divisions, each Division Director answers to The Director of The Institute who makes decisions for The Institute as a whole. The current Director of The Institute is Dr. Xavier Crawford, formerly of the Advanced Systems Division.”

While all true, K5 omitted the details regarding how The Directorate had been wiped out in its entirety following the events in The Commonwealth. While it still technically existed, The Director controlled affairs across divisions almost entirely now.

"A sort of technocracy, then? Interesting, but I guess it's not all that unusual considering the context of being able to construct and develop synthetic people, of all things. Onto the next question - is the Institute presently at war with any states in the wasteland?"

K5 paused briefly before answering the next question, considering her words very carefully,

“We have many rivals who seek our technology for themselves or who might wish for our destruction. Groups in The Commonwealth and entities such as The Brotherhood of Steel which covet technology and abhor AI constructs. However, at present, we do not consider ourselves in a state of open war with any of them. Regardless, we seek allies who might be willing to help us prevent any future conflict. ”

"Allies... Alright. Alright. I think we can work something out. We'll need precise locations, of course, and while I can't make promises, I think Toronto will be interested in pursuing this further, Miss... K5." He said, quietly tapping his chin.

"A few more questions, though, first." He said, bringing his pen back to paper. "We know you have reason to be secretive, but to dispatch a delegation, we'll need to know where your people are located, unless we'll be meeting on neutral ground?"

“For security purposes, I cannot specify a location myself: more specifically, I’m physically unable to give you a location verbally. However, among my possessions is a device known as a Deep Range transmitter. It has encrypted coordinates which can be provided to your leadership. The Director would like to warmly offer his hospitality and is prepared to meet your diplomats at The Institute itself, if that is agreeable.”

"It is, as long as your institute has an airstrip." He explained. "Moving by plane is one of the few ways we're allowed to cross that sort of distance without a massive escort."

“One will be made available,” K5 nodded, “I will warn that the weather in the region can be...unpredictable. But we do whatever we can to assist in guiding your aircraft to a safe landing."

"Unpredictable?" He asked, quirking an eyebrow. Something about the way she said that implied something more than mere unpredictable was happening... What were they hiding, exactly?

"What do you mean by that?"

“Ocean bound radstorms blowing in from the North Atlantic are a frequent occurrence this time of year, and the area is usually inundated with thick rolling fog, which makes visibility poor in even the best conditions. Thankfully The Institute has managed to partially control the latter, and the former can be mitigated with sufficient radiation shielding on buildings and clothing, along with regular distribution of anti-radiation chems. As I said...unpredictable...but not impassable certainly,” K5 replied.

"Radstorms... Huh. That could be a problem, but we've managed in the past. In that case, K5, while I'm just the messenger, I'm confident my Prime Minister will be interested in sending an ambassador to meet with your people." He said, quietly drumming his pain against the desk.

“Excellent, I’ll ensure The Director is informed and will be prepared to welcome the ambassador when they arrive.”

“...Right.” He replied. “If you follow my bodyguards, they can see to it that you get your things back. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

It wasn’t.

alpine republic

peepeepoopoo

-obama prism

@Andreyich@Keyguyperson@USSR@Yam I Am

TES: The Second Great War

"Perhaps you could use a lesson or two in dalliance with nobility, Legate." Tylmaesa thought to herself, staring up at the image of a mortar & pestle hanging above their head.

They were already a noble themselves, after all, or a former once, depending on who you ask - but that didn't matter. Tylmaesa needed something other than clothing entirely - a way to mask the powerful musk accumulated by weeks trapped aboard a boat, more than a simple trip to the bathhouse could do. They'd made sure to squeeze one of those trips in of course, but...

Dunmeri clothes were more exotic anyways, and despite the small chance of causing offense they carried, they were far more concerned about seeming exotic, pleasingly aloof, and, most importantly, Dunmeri.

"Angeline's Aromatics, don't fail me now," they said in perfect, unaccented Cyrodiilic, passing under the sign to open the door. They were immediately assaulted by the pungent, not-entirely-unpleasant smells of medicinal herbs, floral aromatic oils, and practically everything under the sun that didn't smell downright awful, even if the combined cocktail was so powerful as to be nearly overwhelming. They were immediately struck by how much stronger the harsh, medicinal smells were, familiar from the years past when Skyrim was embroiled in its first recent civil war. This, Tylmaesa reasoned, was more like an absurdly violent barroom brawl in terms of the sense it made, so they supposed the similar character of the shop's atmosphere was to be somewhat expected. Rows upon robes of herbs and plants and concoctions lined the shelves along each wall, a large wooden counter dominating the rear... No Angeline, Tylmaesa noted. Had the old woman kicked the bucket? It had been twenty years, after all, but alas... No time to discuss family. They only vaguely remembered the middle-aged woman standing there. She lifted her head to hear Tylmaesa enter, and Tylmaesa smiled disarmingly back at her, hoping to reassure her of their good intentions despite their massive size. Mercifully, the woman didn't appear to recognize Tylmaesa any better than they did her - a relief, for faces often blurred together in her life, and this one certainly hadn't been one of their dalliances. That, they'd remember...

Assuming she was any good.

"How can I help you? Looking for healing remedies?" She asked, smiling.

"Oh, no." Tylmaesa replied, shaking their head. The intricate, flowing black robes hung about their wide frame shifted almost imperceptibly with the movement, fine golden decorations shimmering gently in the dim light; a large strip of cloth decorated with various Dunmeri symbols topped with a similarly oval-shaped strip around her collar.

"Cologne, actually. I'm meeting with an old friend of mine, an Imperial diplomat - but I've been on a boat for weeks. I managed to get by one of the local bathhouses, but..." Tylmaesa shrugged, chuckling disarmingly. "There's only so much a single trip can do, especially on a time crunch."

"Oh!" The woman replied. "I see, I see... Is there a specific sort of fragrance you're looking for, or perhaps recommendations?"

"Well... Sort of. Something smokey, like an incense stick, if you're familiar - the Khajiits use them, as do my own people." She explained. It was a simple choice to make, but an important one - while being too visibly Dunmeri could cause problems, Tylmaesa didn't frankly give a shit if it did, and... Besides, they were the philosopher and advisor. People were often fascinated by visibly exotic philosophers, so all the better to highlight her culture.

"In other words, a scent that would remind someone of Morrowind. The Ashlands, even, if you're familiar."

The middle-aged woman shook her head. "I'm not, but... Let's see if I have something."

The woman turned around, taking a book off the shelf, and began quietly leafing through it. An inventory ledger, Tylmaesa assumed - a much more practical way to track inventory than rooting through endless shelves, and a brief respite for Tylmaesa - time to ruminate. Time to be alone their own thoughts.

They were being used as a political tool by the legate, of course, and they were playing along - admirably so, even - but this function presented a unique opportunity to make friends and allies in the Empire. Not something to be passed up

“Ah! Here we are!’ She said, holding up a small bottle of aromatic oil, gently placing it on the counter. “Here, if you’d like to give it a try?”

Tylmaesa nodded in turn. She approached the counter, popped open the bottle, and daubed a tiny bit onto her wrist, bringing it to her nose. A deep inhale, and...

The muted scent of a distant fire, exotic fruits and flowers, the faint smell of the forest floor.

“Perfect.” They said, recapping the bottle. "How much?"

"One hundred Septims, please." The woman smiled. For a moment, Tylmaesa thought it seemed smug, even mocking - but what the Legate provided was enough. Thankfully, their own funds would still be saved for booze, food, and women.

Tylmaesa plopped a pouch of coin onto the counter, waiting patiently as the woman popped it open and counted out the coinage within. Why the Imperials had yet to fully implement larger denominations if coinage, they did not understand - or perhaps they did, but were simply too frustrated by the inconvenience to care.

Noticing a satisfied nod from the shopkeeper, they snatched up the purse, and made their way to the Palace.

alpine republic

<Snipped quote by Jeddaven>

succ my weener ur not my dad

@Yam I Am

I'm your mom

alpine republic

<Snipped quote by Jeddaven>

I summon Vivec and he smokes crack with Putin and the King of Al-Quaeda

@Yam I Am

you broke the chain

death

alpine republic

<Snipped quote by Jeddaven>

@Yam I Am