Dervish said
Me thinks somebody took a trip to the Shivering Isles. D:
And there, I found Shadowmare.
Hope RPG stablizes, the IRC channel is... interesting. Gotta be a better way to receive updates.
And by golly, NoSoul updates the IC!
Nyxella
Member
Delphic Dame
STATUS: "So remember, to look up at the stars and not down at your feet... It matters that you don't just give up." - Stephen Hawking 7 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 2 mos ago
- Old Guild Username: Nyxella
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 328 (0.08 / day)
- VMs: 1
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- Nyxella 11 yrs ago
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7 yrs ago
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"So remember, to look up at the stars and not down at your feet... It matters that you don't just give up." - Stephen Hawking
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Most Recent Posts
And there, I found Shadowmare.
Hope RPG stablizes, the IRC channel is... interesting. Gotta be a better way to receive updates.
And by golly, NoSoul updates the IC!
Wrote about lots of nothing and ended it with a cop-out standby pose. The epitome of borrowed time is I. Hey why not wabbajack all the things into cows, and make offering to the Tundrastriders, therefore incurring the wrath of Ius and fucking everything up twice? :D Bear Grylls will eat anything that staff conjures, he's like the Gourmet on skooma.
If anyone needs me I'll be burning money in barrels of rum.
If anyone needs me I'll be burning money in barrels of rum.
creak...
Her eyelids fluttered at the sound of leather-bound footsteps softly padding through the alley. Helgathe’s denizens had surfaced, if not to ply their dastardly trade, then to feed their dark desires in places covered in moon-shadow. By the sounds of detriment pushed about, the rattle of crates and barrels wobbling below cat-like movements, it seemed the Dagger sat on a prominent private highway. Sheathed in a twitching lattice of fingers, the heft of her axe lay firm against her belly, moving in a tide affected by the pull of restless vigilance. She anchored it with a grip cast in steel, lest it took flight after the nearest insect again. Shortly after retiring, she had heard a small rapping noise at the windowsill and threw her axe, thinking a thief had decided to come in and die horribly. Its course went uninterrupted and flung the shutter outwards with a mighty slam, rusted pintles biting down for dear life. Ole Madira kicked the door off its hinges, wielding a broom like wooden claymore bound for Thyra’s room invader. In the midst of their confusion, a dainty luna moth floated away with added flourish to salt the opened wound.
creeeak….
As penalty for her brazen act, the feeble complaints of an abused door kept her teetering on the edge between realms, namely those of Vaermina and Sheogorath. Her eyes bulged and popped at the soft touch of a predawn haze spilling in from the torn curtain. Blue notes warmed the air until it glowed, so distinct it could be seen through sleepy eyes, but not enough to be considered true light. She rose with a yawn, stretched tall, and cracked the joints in each shoulder, concluding the symphony with a loud tweak of her neck. Mashad wasn’t expecting them for another two hours, enough time to fit in a liquid breakfast. She helped herself to an olive green kurta from the dresser, tucked a pair of dark cotton pants into her old boots and made her descent.
creeeek…..
Six doors lay at the end of the hallway, half of them above the bar, and the others above the kitchen. On her end, there were only four, built over the large mess hall and hearth. The view from her corner room revealed the back-ends of adjacent buildings, some without windows, some without walls, but all with a balcony of some sort jutting over the murky alley. Downstairs, the walls left and right were pocked with slim openings. Salomei had begun clipping back their deep crimson drapes to let in the freshening air. Thyra ordered two cups of strong ale and, at Madira’s insistence, half a loaf of bread. Only after finishing did she realise the three figures seated at the far side of the bar. They had a strong bearing to match their size, each man towering at least a metre over the counter, perched on stools that were spaced apart to accommodate their girth.
Madira shuffled over to the Nord staring in their direction. “Just arrived,” she whispered discreetly. “Men from the Alik’r.”
They wore the loose-fitting garb associated with desert dwellers, and thick scarves over their heads, save the one sitting closest to her. His hair was shaved down to a short wedge through the middle, showing off the raised imprint of a scar stretching from his temple to the top of his ear. Thyra tilted her head to snatch a glance below, and saw the cruel grin of a blade hanging at his side.
Curved. Swords. She grinned, remembering the tales that circulated around Skyrim. When she pulled back, the man was looking at her, dark eyes narrowed in suspicion. A tense minute passed. His onyx glare challenging her glacial stare. To break first would be to concede, and being as defiant as she was, Thyra damned the unfavourable odds by refusing to. She propped a fist on the curve of her hip, tilting her body towards him, and sliding back the cape folds to reveal the weapon it hid. By raising her chin, the intention to use it if need be was made clear.
The man blinked once, and slowly, as a sly expression bent the firm line of his full lips. A series of deep, halting breaths shook the great breadth of his chest, and he turned towards the bar, shaking his head. She chuckled with him, finished her meal, and took leave without a word. Their eyes never touched a second time, but she could feel his following after her, the same way he could feel hers looking back from the door. It didn’t matter if she couldn’t understand what his companions were saying. The warrior’s code had its own universal language.
The faces that blurred past soon came together like walls of blood, shedding tears with open mouths, thinning out towards the source of their terror. Thyra was forced to rely on signals from the figures above for direction. They skipped along the rooftops as if their footsteps were light as air, seemingly unaware of the distance leapt between buildings, and the weight of their cargo. She and the three men from the Dagger were like fumbling brutes in comparison. They speared through the retreating crowd like a ship through packs of ice, using the breadth of their shoulders to fend off what their hands couldn’t grasp and push. The men from the Alik’r were among the first faces she recognised upon her return to the Mosque, though she would have looked more Worshipper than civilian, half-dressed in steel. To keep up the appearance of a faceless loner, she made an effort to avoid their inquisitive gazes, but as it turned out, their intervention was a part of Kyne’s divine foresight. They were invaluable in dispatching the guards that caught her setting fire to their outposts. And, again without words, they chose to follow when she made swiftly towards the main conflict.
They arrived at the square moments before the next wave was due, heavy footsteps splashing through the aftermath of what came before. The survivors were talking battle formations and strategy, their voices finding resonance in the metallic clang of weaponry delivered from above, reinforcing their will to fight. With renewed vigour, they cordoned off the blood-soaked square, seeking vantage points and sealing formations as best as they could in anticipation for the next round. From beneath her ragged disguise, Thyra pulled a shield from her hump, and an axe from the side of her body that once limped with feigned agony. The only part of her cloak to remain in place was its hood, leaning over her brow like a hawk’s beak. Archers sought vantage points atop shade cloths, the upturned prison cart, low roofs, anything that elevated them above their mace-, sword- and axe-wielding brethren. Thyra sought out a flank dominated by blunt specialists, noting one lad who seemed unsure of the warhammer he held, but took a ready stance, nonetheless. Three sets of footsteps came up behind her, sealing the rear, and she smiled. She’d need to learn Yokudan so she can ask the mohawked man for his name. Among them, the Nord resembled a snowflake in the desert, but the intentions that powered their fierce expressions were all the same.
A roar echoed in the distance, announcing the coming of Redguard and Dwemer. As she lay in wait, Thyra thought back to the man she saw, standing in the middle of the chaos, set apart by his strong bearing and the armour he wore. It was his voice the hooded ones followed, his actions they read, in coordinating shaken survivors and newcomers into the solid flanks that now barricaded every street. An eye on the horizon, axe held ready, shield hoisted, knee to shoulder, she waited and listened for that same voice to sound again.
Her eyelids fluttered at the sound of leather-bound footsteps softly padding through the alley. Helgathe’s denizens had surfaced, if not to ply their dastardly trade, then to feed their dark desires in places covered in moon-shadow. By the sounds of detriment pushed about, the rattle of crates and barrels wobbling below cat-like movements, it seemed the Dagger sat on a prominent private highway. Sheathed in a twitching lattice of fingers, the heft of her axe lay firm against her belly, moving in a tide affected by the pull of restless vigilance. She anchored it with a grip cast in steel, lest it took flight after the nearest insect again. Shortly after retiring, she had heard a small rapping noise at the windowsill and threw her axe, thinking a thief had decided to come in and die horribly. Its course went uninterrupted and flung the shutter outwards with a mighty slam, rusted pintles biting down for dear life. Ole Madira kicked the door off its hinges, wielding a broom like wooden claymore bound for Thyra’s room invader. In the midst of their confusion, a dainty luna moth floated away with added flourish to salt the opened wound.
creeeak….
As penalty for her brazen act, the feeble complaints of an abused door kept her teetering on the edge between realms, namely those of Vaermina and Sheogorath. Her eyes bulged and popped at the soft touch of a predawn haze spilling in from the torn curtain. Blue notes warmed the air until it glowed, so distinct it could be seen through sleepy eyes, but not enough to be considered true light. She rose with a yawn, stretched tall, and cracked the joints in each shoulder, concluding the symphony with a loud tweak of her neck. Mashad wasn’t expecting them for another two hours, enough time to fit in a liquid breakfast. She helped herself to an olive green kurta from the dresser, tucked a pair of dark cotton pants into her old boots and made her descent.
creeeek…..
Six doors lay at the end of the hallway, half of them above the bar, and the others above the kitchen. On her end, there were only four, built over the large mess hall and hearth. The view from her corner room revealed the back-ends of adjacent buildings, some without windows, some without walls, but all with a balcony of some sort jutting over the murky alley. Downstairs, the walls left and right were pocked with slim openings. Salomei had begun clipping back their deep crimson drapes to let in the freshening air. Thyra ordered two cups of strong ale and, at Madira’s insistence, half a loaf of bread. Only after finishing did she realise the three figures seated at the far side of the bar. They had a strong bearing to match their size, each man towering at least a metre over the counter, perched on stools that were spaced apart to accommodate their girth.
Madira shuffled over to the Nord staring in their direction. “Just arrived,” she whispered discreetly. “Men from the Alik’r.”
They wore the loose-fitting garb associated with desert dwellers, and thick scarves over their heads, save the one sitting closest to her. His hair was shaved down to a short wedge through the middle, showing off the raised imprint of a scar stretching from his temple to the top of his ear. Thyra tilted her head to snatch a glance below, and saw the cruel grin of a blade hanging at his side.
Curved. Swords. She grinned, remembering the tales that circulated around Skyrim. When she pulled back, the man was looking at her, dark eyes narrowed in suspicion. A tense minute passed. His onyx glare challenging her glacial stare. To break first would be to concede, and being as defiant as she was, Thyra damned the unfavourable odds by refusing to. She propped a fist on the curve of her hip, tilting her body towards him, and sliding back the cape folds to reveal the weapon it hid. By raising her chin, the intention to use it if need be was made clear.
The man blinked once, and slowly, as a sly expression bent the firm line of his full lips. A series of deep, halting breaths shook the great breadth of his chest, and he turned towards the bar, shaking his head. She chuckled with him, finished her meal, and took leave without a word. Their eyes never touched a second time, but she could feel his following after her, the same way he could feel hers looking back from the door. It didn’t matter if she couldn’t understand what his companions were saying. The warrior’s code had its own universal language.
The faces that blurred past soon came together like walls of blood, shedding tears with open mouths, thinning out towards the source of their terror. Thyra was forced to rely on signals from the figures above for direction. They skipped along the rooftops as if their footsteps were light as air, seemingly unaware of the distance leapt between buildings, and the weight of their cargo. She and the three men from the Dagger were like fumbling brutes in comparison. They speared through the retreating crowd like a ship through packs of ice, using the breadth of their shoulders to fend off what their hands couldn’t grasp and push. The men from the Alik’r were among the first faces she recognised upon her return to the Mosque, though she would have looked more Worshipper than civilian, half-dressed in steel. To keep up the appearance of a faceless loner, she made an effort to avoid their inquisitive gazes, but as it turned out, their intervention was a part of Kyne’s divine foresight. They were invaluable in dispatching the guards that caught her setting fire to their outposts. And, again without words, they chose to follow when she made swiftly towards the main conflict.
They arrived at the square moments before the next wave was due, heavy footsteps splashing through the aftermath of what came before. The survivors were talking battle formations and strategy, their voices finding resonance in the metallic clang of weaponry delivered from above, reinforcing their will to fight. With renewed vigour, they cordoned off the blood-soaked square, seeking vantage points and sealing formations as best as they could in anticipation for the next round. From beneath her ragged disguise, Thyra pulled a shield from her hump, and an axe from the side of her body that once limped with feigned agony. The only part of her cloak to remain in place was its hood, leaning over her brow like a hawk’s beak. Archers sought vantage points atop shade cloths, the upturned prison cart, low roofs, anything that elevated them above their mace-, sword- and axe-wielding brethren. Thyra sought out a flank dominated by blunt specialists, noting one lad who seemed unsure of the warhammer he held, but took a ready stance, nonetheless. Three sets of footsteps came up behind her, sealing the rear, and she smiled. She’d need to learn Yokudan so she can ask the mohawked man for his name. Among them, the Nord resembled a snowflake in the desert, but the intentions that powered their fierce expressions were all the same.
A roar echoed in the distance, announcing the coming of Redguard and Dwemer. As she lay in wait, Thyra thought back to the man she saw, standing in the middle of the chaos, set apart by his strong bearing and the armour he wore. It was his voice the hooded ones followed, his actions they read, in coordinating shaken survivors and newcomers into the solid flanks that now barricaded every street. An eye on the horizon, axe held ready, shield hoisted, knee to shoulder, she waited and listened for that same voice to sound again.
There are some things you uncover in ES wiki that should never be allowed to touch human eyes.
Buljursoma used CONFUSE. *feelsviolated*
Cairo', your taels give me supersanic lols. That was magnificent!! Some parts made me cry.
Shon', if there is a person who should never complain about the pace of a roleplay, I am that person's mentor. Jolly good show you've given us in the IC! Almost hesitant to join in cos I wanna see you write the rest out, lol. But I will! *fears Dervs' lazorgleam*
Buljursoma used CONFUSE. *feelsviolated*
Cairo', your taels give me supersanic lols. That was magnificent!! Some parts made me cry.
Shon', if there is a person who should never complain about the pace of a roleplay, I am that person's mentor. Jolly good show you've given us in the IC! Almost hesitant to join in cos I wanna see you write the rest out, lol. But I will! *fears Dervs' lazorgleam*
*dies*
Reached for the riot, fell inside a tavern. Art imitating life. Will get around to the actual riot on Monday, or catch up should things progress over the weekend. Kinda hope they do, tbh :P Have awesome weekend time, ghosties.
Reached for the riot, fell inside a tavern. Art imitating life. Will get around to the actual riot on Monday, or catch up should things progress over the weekend. Kinda hope they do, tbh :P Have awesome weekend time, ghosties.
---------------------
Marble giants dominated her side view, standing tall and proud, with fearless gazes soaring across the starry plane. Likewise, their salutes pointed skywards, one towards the open blue, and the second at a tall construct. Its box-like silhouette was filled close to the top with varying shades of black, bearing the faint outline of its skeleton. A burst of orange and gold erupted from its peak, and within the sphere of its glow, Thyra first saw the lone Guard; watching her tread through the empty square.
Not an hour earlier, Thyra was among the crush of retreating market-goers, hustling through narrow streets to escape what most believed was a haggling duel gone wrong. Pushing and bumping, they shoved each other towards the temple like a herd of cattle. Thyra, with her foreign face and rigid demeanour, stood out like a stick of chalk. She chose her steps carefully, dwelling in shadows until the patrols passed, and darting between outposts. Sometimes she’d overhear vivid accounts of guard cruelty, and it enraged her to no end; hearing of how they viciously beat peasants in the streets for crimes feeble and imagined; of house raids and curfews; of businesses beggared by soaring tariffs and one-sided policies.
Insurgency seemed all the more appealing after making those observations, than when it did when first proposed back at camp. What she wanted to do wasn’t heroic, unless overthrowing a government purely for the chance to stomp the brains behind this insane regime counted as such. Her blood boiled at the thought of such abuse, Mara save them if she ever bore witness to it.
Airy tendrils brushed against a bronzed and dewy brow, treating the weary soul to sweet scents and music from sailing in from the tavern’s door. A smaller breath of air flew forth in response, swatting at the strand of auburn hair that hung beside its puckered source.
Street lamps chased the night’s gloom off emptied streets and pathways, outlining the various routes streaked across the landscape. The impatient Guard couldn’t wait to follow the more brightly lit one, joining the watchtower to the doorstep of the “Voiceless Dagger”. One set of fingers drummed at the wooden railings, and the other clung tightly to a blazing torch held over its edge, spilling rays of soft light onto the pavement three storeys below.
Despite being an hour late for their shift, two Guards approached clasping the others shoulder with their opposing hand, cheeks as red as roses, and smiles as wide as Masser. Their drunkenness was obvious to the Archer’s eye. They stumbled forward and gave a mock salute, which was responded to with a nod and a hidden finger. Another joke here, another ‘Remember when’ conversation there, and the finally encountered the steps, climbing as slowly as possible to the sound of deep giggles. The Guard still-on-duty focused on a point of contrast by the Mosque, a lone figure out later than they should be. Tall and broad-shouldered, skimming the tiles with their shifty footsteps, keffiyeh worn like a mask; it was a damning sign of trouble.
Curfew or not, Helgathe’s denizens maintained their holdings, but to investigate their secret affairs meant leaving the outposts and getting dirty, possibly injured. Possibly killed. No sane person on the City Guard’s pay-scale, with the infamy that garnered, would care. Except for the Archer waiting atop the outpost. She cared deeply for her countrymen, the same as any honourable Redguard, but not enough to abandon the old man sitting at home, awaiting her arrival.
When, at last, their eager footsteps found their way across the Dagger’s threshold, the Guard didn’t slow until the barkeep was near. The scent of spice, lemon, alcohol and vomit combined with her natural musk, correlating with the smears on her tavern garb. Her gaunt face bore such clarity, one could almost see through the deep fissures of her brow and frown, and into her mind, no doubt where the assortment of muttered curse-words came from. The Innkeep was a more welcoming sight, twice as short and twice as wide as the door she dragged her many robes through. No two people in the city could have more contrasts between them than Salomei and Madira.
“Welcome to the Voiceless Dagger, you’re free to any one stuck in my back,” Salomei croned in her high-pitched nasal, sarcastic tone.
“Late for you, Naya,” came the earthy voice of Ole Madira, her chins wobbling with every shake of her head. “Old Man be thinkin’ strange to let you out this long.” Her long sleeves dragged across the floor as she gestured to a stool.
“He’ll survive one drink,” she grinned back at the old woman and settled herself on a separate stool. Professional artisans in every sense, only a tiny ripple raked through their demeanours, but the Archer noticed. As expected, there was something amiss about the character next to her. Salomei dropped a broomstick against the counter and fetched Naya her usual grog.
“Here’s to a peaceful Helgathe.” Half the drink disappeared on that toast. It was neat, with the right amount of honey, and served in a clean glass. Naya made a humming noise and looked at it cautiously.
“I hear you got promoted!” Madira cut in quickly, “Praises be, child, we gonna see less of you now?”
A knowing smile spread across her lips. “Something like a promotion. The city square’s a stage, no fools around to break law, and nobody paying mind, anyway. I feel no shame admitting that it gave me easy money, but I’m happy to go. The docks have more air and empty space, you know?”
“That all?” Salomei asked bluntly, referring to Naya’s glass that was now empty.
“No, no,” she chuckled, doffing her hood. “One more for me.” At Madira’s inquisitive eyebrow, she laughed, “Rostered leave. New government’s good for some things, huh?”
She stole a glance at the stranger sitting beside her, someone who clearly disagreed with that statement, unless that cough was coincidental. The air stilled as Salomei twisted to look over from the stack of barrels, and Madira continually clutched her chest in search of a heartbeat.
Naya grinned. “Aunt Sal’, can we get another, um,” she gestured at the tankard lying empty below a pale hand.
“Mead,” the stranger replied.
“Yes, that,” her eyes flicked sideways. “A northern drink. You from there?”
“‘cause I like mead?” her voice was louder now, and feminine, if it could be believed.
Naya took a proper look now that she wasn’t affected by shadows and distance. Without the keffiyeh obstructing her face, she could see the green design painted on her pale skin, white-blonde hair, and blue eyes that avoided her. She hummed, “I can think of some other reasons. What has brought you so far from home, Nord?”
“This,” a hand shot forward to receive the refilled tankard, the loose sleeve peeling back to reveal scars and lean muscle coloured white and silver. Naya made no attempts to hide her surprise.
“New to Hammerfell, a?”
Silence.
“Any more of you? Travellers, I mean. I didn’t see you last night, can’t remember ever seeing you before, that’s how I can tell you’re new.”
“Is it your business to know?” Her voice was louder now, not a shout, but the words were projected with force that they could probably be heard from upstairs.
“No, it’s not. And it won’t be at least for the next few days,” Naya’s response garnered curiosity from all listening. She nodded and turned her head suddenly, catching the Nord unaware. For the first time, amber met ice. “It is hard to switch off when the day is done,” she sighed. “Adenai.” Her body turned to offer out a hand.
Thyra raised an eyebrow. For all she could remember, those new identity papers were blank. Her mind was blank. Her expression was blank. Everything was blank. Only one thought existed in the vast expanse of her empty mind: this Redguard is exactly who she should be avoiding.
“Sigrid,” an answer came, but not from the Nord woman. Madira smiled warmly and resumed her task of re-drying the plates that happened to be on a shelf right next to them.
“Sigrid then,” Naya took her hand and shook it. After swilling the remains of her glass, she propped her hood back up and rose. “If you’re still here in a couple days, I’ll be at the docks. You do owe me.” She farewelled the Innkeeper, pushing enough coin into her hand for all three drinks. Thyra stared after her as she disappeared behind the narrow curtain, mouth still partly open.
Madira approached her, chuckling. “Too close, that one. Here,” she pushed six gold coins into her hand. “You’ll be needin’ ‘em more than the one in your pocket,” she gave a wink. “Now! You better lay up if you wan’ catch the early morn’. Can’t have you turnin’ up drunk. Little Boss will throw a fit!”
Thyra gave the woman a genuine smile. As soon as she finished, she trudged upstairs and into a room set up by Salomei, on an isolated side of the Inn. Through a split between the curtains, moonlight fell, drawing a bright line on the wall opposite her bed. She watched it until her vision narrowed, and her head filled entirely with that bright light.
Marble giants dominated her side view, standing tall and proud, with fearless gazes soaring across the starry plane. Likewise, their salutes pointed skywards, one towards the open blue, and the second at a tall construct. Its box-like silhouette was filled close to the top with varying shades of black, bearing the faint outline of its skeleton. A burst of orange and gold erupted from its peak, and within the sphere of its glow, Thyra first saw the lone Guard; watching her tread through the empty square.
Not an hour earlier, Thyra was among the crush of retreating market-goers, hustling through narrow streets to escape what most believed was a haggling duel gone wrong. Pushing and bumping, they shoved each other towards the temple like a herd of cattle. Thyra, with her foreign face and rigid demeanour, stood out like a stick of chalk. She chose her steps carefully, dwelling in shadows until the patrols passed, and darting between outposts. Sometimes she’d overhear vivid accounts of guard cruelty, and it enraged her to no end; hearing of how they viciously beat peasants in the streets for crimes feeble and imagined; of house raids and curfews; of businesses beggared by soaring tariffs and one-sided policies.
Insurgency seemed all the more appealing after making those observations, than when it did when first proposed back at camp. What she wanted to do wasn’t heroic, unless overthrowing a government purely for the chance to stomp the brains behind this insane regime counted as such. Her blood boiled at the thought of such abuse, Mara save them if she ever bore witness to it.
Airy tendrils brushed against a bronzed and dewy brow, treating the weary soul to sweet scents and music from sailing in from the tavern’s door. A smaller breath of air flew forth in response, swatting at the strand of auburn hair that hung beside its puckered source.
Street lamps chased the night’s gloom off emptied streets and pathways, outlining the various routes streaked across the landscape. The impatient Guard couldn’t wait to follow the more brightly lit one, joining the watchtower to the doorstep of the “Voiceless Dagger”. One set of fingers drummed at the wooden railings, and the other clung tightly to a blazing torch held over its edge, spilling rays of soft light onto the pavement three storeys below.
Despite being an hour late for their shift, two Guards approached clasping the others shoulder with their opposing hand, cheeks as red as roses, and smiles as wide as Masser. Their drunkenness was obvious to the Archer’s eye. They stumbled forward and gave a mock salute, which was responded to with a nod and a hidden finger. Another joke here, another ‘Remember when’ conversation there, and the finally encountered the steps, climbing as slowly as possible to the sound of deep giggles. The Guard still-on-duty focused on a point of contrast by the Mosque, a lone figure out later than they should be. Tall and broad-shouldered, skimming the tiles with their shifty footsteps, keffiyeh worn like a mask; it was a damning sign of trouble.
Curfew or not, Helgathe’s denizens maintained their holdings, but to investigate their secret affairs meant leaving the outposts and getting dirty, possibly injured. Possibly killed. No sane person on the City Guard’s pay-scale, with the infamy that garnered, would care. Except for the Archer waiting atop the outpost. She cared deeply for her countrymen, the same as any honourable Redguard, but not enough to abandon the old man sitting at home, awaiting her arrival.
When, at last, their eager footsteps found their way across the Dagger’s threshold, the Guard didn’t slow until the barkeep was near. The scent of spice, lemon, alcohol and vomit combined with her natural musk, correlating with the smears on her tavern garb. Her gaunt face bore such clarity, one could almost see through the deep fissures of her brow and frown, and into her mind, no doubt where the assortment of muttered curse-words came from. The Innkeep was a more welcoming sight, twice as short and twice as wide as the door she dragged her many robes through. No two people in the city could have more contrasts between them than Salomei and Madira.
“Welcome to the Voiceless Dagger, you’re free to any one stuck in my back,” Salomei croned in her high-pitched nasal, sarcastic tone.
“Late for you, Naya,” came the earthy voice of Ole Madira, her chins wobbling with every shake of her head. “Old Man be thinkin’ strange to let you out this long.” Her long sleeves dragged across the floor as she gestured to a stool.
“He’ll survive one drink,” she grinned back at the old woman and settled herself on a separate stool. Professional artisans in every sense, only a tiny ripple raked through their demeanours, but the Archer noticed. As expected, there was something amiss about the character next to her. Salomei dropped a broomstick against the counter and fetched Naya her usual grog.
“Here’s to a peaceful Helgathe.” Half the drink disappeared on that toast. It was neat, with the right amount of honey, and served in a clean glass. Naya made a humming noise and looked at it cautiously.
“I hear you got promoted!” Madira cut in quickly, “Praises be, child, we gonna see less of you now?”
A knowing smile spread across her lips. “Something like a promotion. The city square’s a stage, no fools around to break law, and nobody paying mind, anyway. I feel no shame admitting that it gave me easy money, but I’m happy to go. The docks have more air and empty space, you know?”
“That all?” Salomei asked bluntly, referring to Naya’s glass that was now empty.
“No, no,” she chuckled, doffing her hood. “One more for me.” At Madira’s inquisitive eyebrow, she laughed, “Rostered leave. New government’s good for some things, huh?”
She stole a glance at the stranger sitting beside her, someone who clearly disagreed with that statement, unless that cough was coincidental. The air stilled as Salomei twisted to look over from the stack of barrels, and Madira continually clutched her chest in search of a heartbeat.
Naya grinned. “Aunt Sal’, can we get another, um,” she gestured at the tankard lying empty below a pale hand.
“Mead,” the stranger replied.
“Yes, that,” her eyes flicked sideways. “A northern drink. You from there?”
“‘cause I like mead?” her voice was louder now, and feminine, if it could be believed.
Naya took a proper look now that she wasn’t affected by shadows and distance. Without the keffiyeh obstructing her face, she could see the green design painted on her pale skin, white-blonde hair, and blue eyes that avoided her. She hummed, “I can think of some other reasons. What has brought you so far from home, Nord?”
“This,” a hand shot forward to receive the refilled tankard, the loose sleeve peeling back to reveal scars and lean muscle coloured white and silver. Naya made no attempts to hide her surprise.
“New to Hammerfell, a?”
Silence.
“Any more of you? Travellers, I mean. I didn’t see you last night, can’t remember ever seeing you before, that’s how I can tell you’re new.”
“Is it your business to know?” Her voice was louder now, not a shout, but the words were projected with force that they could probably be heard from upstairs.
“No, it’s not. And it won’t be at least for the next few days,” Naya’s response garnered curiosity from all listening. She nodded and turned her head suddenly, catching the Nord unaware. For the first time, amber met ice. “It is hard to switch off when the day is done,” she sighed. “Adenai.” Her body turned to offer out a hand.
Thyra raised an eyebrow. For all she could remember, those new identity papers were blank. Her mind was blank. Her expression was blank. Everything was blank. Only one thought existed in the vast expanse of her empty mind: this Redguard is exactly who she should be avoiding.
“Sigrid,” an answer came, but not from the Nord woman. Madira smiled warmly and resumed her task of re-drying the plates that happened to be on a shelf right next to them.
“Sigrid then,” Naya took her hand and shook it. After swilling the remains of her glass, she propped her hood back up and rose. “If you’re still here in a couple days, I’ll be at the docks. You do owe me.” She farewelled the Innkeeper, pushing enough coin into her hand for all three drinks. Thyra stared after her as she disappeared behind the narrow curtain, mouth still partly open.
Madira approached her, chuckling. “Too close, that one. Here,” she pushed six gold coins into her hand. “You’ll be needin’ ‘em more than the one in your pocket,” she gave a wink. “Now! You better lay up if you wan’ catch the early morn’. Can’t have you turnin’ up drunk. Little Boss will throw a fit!”
Thyra gave the woman a genuine smile. As soon as she finished, she trudged upstairs and into a room set up by Salomei, on an isolated side of the Inn. Through a split between the curtains, moonlight fell, drawing a bright line on the wall opposite her bed. She watched it until her vision narrowed, and her head filled entirely with that bright light.
*raises hand from beneath corpse pile* Still alive and kicking, despite looking very dead. Sorry for going AWOL, will get Thyra caught up in the morning when these letters aren't being punched in through a smartphones face.
Can I be honest and say that AC: Black Flag is as breathtaking as it is distracting? Also, since Shon and Voltaire are doin' the business, can I assume that we hopeful rioters are to follow suit? Or did something happen in the OOC where everybody made party plans? From Dervs' poasty, I got the 'CAAAN YEWW DIG ITTTT' vibe, right before eveyone went oozaru-shit.
Can I be honest and say that AC: Black Flag is as breathtaking as it is distracting? Also, since Shon and Voltaire are doin' the business, can I assume that we hopeful rioters are to follow suit? Or did something happen in the OOC where everybody made party plans? From Dervs' poasty, I got the 'CAAAN YEWW DIG ITTTT' vibe, right before eveyone went oozaru-shit.
Sweet baby cheeses, you pulled a guildfall chapter out of your as-chives... Archives. Missed these earlier chapters! The diamond run at Vangelico's, jet plane drive-by and Sevari's cheeto fetish. Man, what a great ab' workout that was.
Leidenschaft said
It is stated in lore that the races of man live to be 100.
With the exception of Heimskr who missed the chance to personally kiss Tiber-Talos' butt by exactly one year.
Don't listen to me, new people, your posts in the OOC already outnumber my posts made IC. AND WELCOOOME!
Fort Snowhawk belongs to who now? Me now. Thank you, procrastination spell!
I am like the wind; gone one minute, all up in yo fabulous the next.
Rtron, seriously?! This news is the opposite of awesome, but because you have been a good sir in this RP and others, I'll put away the double-sided tape, bribes and pleas to reconsider, to wish you well on your journeys. All the bestest, mate.
On the upside - heyyyy new person! GravityFlux you must join for the single reason that there are sooo many ways to play with your username. Nicknames galore like a game of boggle. I'm sure any one of us would be willing to write you a detailed 15-page synopsis on every instance of every character's every breath ever made. Ever. Actually, I'll make you a mini-one from Thyra's (my happy Nord) POV, it'll help jog the memory.
Rtron, seriously?! This news is the opposite of awesome, but because you have been a good sir in this RP and others, I'll put away the double-sided tape, bribes and pleas to reconsider, to wish you well on your journeys. All the bestest, mate.
On the upside - heyyyy new person! GravityFlux you must join for the single reason that there are sooo many ways to play with your username. Nicknames galore like a game of boggle. I'm sure any one of us would be willing to write you a detailed 15-page synopsis on every instance of every character's every breath ever made. Ever. Actually, I'll make you a mini-one from Thyra's (my happy Nord) POV, it'll help jog the memory.
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