<Snipped quote by Frizan>
What is this, a Ranger for ants?
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Peik
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In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)
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6 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
What is this, a Ranger for ants?
In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)
→
6 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Well, if Sadri were sane at the moment, he'd go for option 2, but he's not, so 3. He can grab the charge and try to blow it up if Sagax's feeling particularly indecisive. Or go headbutt Tennant.
IT'S HELL OR HIGH WATER, LADS
IT'S HELL OR HIGH WATER, LADS
In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)
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7 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
It was rather hard to describe what exactly Sadri Beleth was doing during the time of the ship’s attack. Having spent the time granted to him by his privilege of not having to do chores on board, he had drunk himself to a high on the bottle of vermouth he'd bought, and afterwards, the ship’s stocks of grog; of which he had conveniently laced his own share with a tasty amount of moon sugar. The inebriation helped him sleep, and the mind boggling properties of the sugar helped him not dream of Solveig, or so he claimed. From the way his face looked when sleeping, one could easily say that he wasn’t looking all too happy with whatever it was that he kept dreaming of. Either way, it did not keep him from drinking the ‘sweet grog’, as he called it.
He’d managed to stay asleep through the first moments of the attack, likely thanks to being far too drunk to wake up. It wasn’t until he got knocked off his hammock and whacked his face on the floorboards of the deck with the ship getting pulled by the chains that he was brought (somewhat) back into the land of the living. People were rushing by him from all sides; for a moment, he thought that he was a small rodent, thrown into the midst of a stampede. Then he somewhat remembered who he was and where he was. While it didn’t make any sense to him, it did remind him how to move. He spasmed a little to get some feel for how his limbs worked, then, like a baby, he began crawling on the ground to do something.
A pair of hands grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him up to bash him against the bulkheads interrupted that course of action fairly quickly. He murmured something incomprehensible before raising his eyes to see who had roused him from his movement. It was no Mer, certainly, and it wasn’t Dumhuvud. If anything it was a strangely forgettable face. Who was this guy? Why were bandages bursting out of the armor piece that covered his neck? Why was he moving his mouth open and closed constantly? What was he doing? Sadri only realized that he could hear things and that the man in front of him was talking after a few moments of just... existing.
“Dunmer, you should certainly wake up! Something’s attacking the ship and it’s your duty to fight!”
“Euuwhad, wwhoareyyuou?”
“Oh, for Meridia’s sake,” Marcel muttered to himself before pulling a vial from one of the pouches strapped to his belt. He popped it open and forced an amount of its contents down Sadri’s nostrils, which immediately sent him scrambling to vomit. Sadri felt as if this man had filled his skull with vinegar; his brain was burning. He let out the contents of his stomach quickly; for a moment, the man thought that Sadri was puking blood, for nothing but a reddish liquid came out of his stomach. But he was doing far too good for someone who’d just vomited out his entire blood supply; he assumed it was wine and other drinks. Sadri immediately began rubbing his nose to get out whatever it was that the man had poured in.
“I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU FUCKING CUNT YOU FUCKCUNT AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRR”
Marcel, surprised with the effects of the Cure Poison Potion he’d given the Dunmer, quickly pulled out his steel sword and climbed the ladder to the upper deck, deciding that whatever he’d have to deal with up there would be far better than whatever was happening to Sadri. Of course, finding himself in the midst of a carnage with overgrown seafood attacking the ship, and bits and pieces of people getting flung around by a werewolf, he quickly found that notion incorrect. Nonetheless, he threw himself into the fray with the discipline of a well-trained soldier, quickly forgetting Sadri and that weird situation he’d found himself below deck.
It would seem that the situation wasn’t keen on forgetting him, though; Sadri Beleth suddenly appeared on deck, a bottle of rum in his hand, yelling out a cry at the top of his lungs:
“FUCKING LOBSTER CUUUUUUUUUNTS”
Marcel blinked in disbelief.
“I’LL HAVE YER FUCKIN’ LIMBS FOR DINNER YOU OCTOPUS SHITS,” Sadri roared out, before jumping on top of a Dreugh like an oversized chimpanzee, trying to bite a piece out of its carapace. The undoubtedly surprised creature began flailing its arms, although whether out of pain or fear was not apparent, and began skittering around on deck with the Dunmer on its back like a child trying to fight away an angered nest of bees, trying to get the crazed mer off. Screeching in pain while trying to buzz Sadri off, the Dreugh eventually managed to clasp one of its limbs around his thigh, and pulled him off its back, and suddenly found one of its mandibles crunched between Sadri’s teeth.
The Dreugh had no way of understanding what the Dunmer was shouting; the others on deck could probably understand what “TASTES LIKE YOUR MOM’S FISHCUNT” meant, though no doubt it was still hard to contextualize.
Sadri eventually managed to bite off the creature’s mandible upon pushing his foot against the belly of the Dreugh and pulling his head back, although realized that he’d thrown himself off his feet with the strength of the action. Scrambling midair as to grab a hold of something, his iron palm immediately clasped itself around the first thing that it felt nearby; Sadri felt his entire body weight pull him down for a moment, and found that he was hanging above not the ship, but the sea. He looked up and saw that his hand was wrapped around a chain. While normally he’d ask to himself ”What the fuck” or feel disbelief in just how lucky he had been, right now the concoction that ran through his veins made him angry. Really angry.
Reaching up with his other hand and pulling himself up on the chain, he chewed the Dreugh mandible in his mouth a bit, finding the taste fairly close to crab, and then spat it out into the sea with a look of sheer spite on his face as his eyes made contact with the Dreugh whose jaw he’d just spat into the sea.
Sadri began yelling out shanties as he began climbing the chain instinctively, the way an ape would climb a tree by easily pulling itself up the branches. He’d spent a few years on board, and the experience was nothing new to him; his long limbs and relatively low weight had given him an edge in climbing since his very childhood. Lobbing his gangly limbs upwards with uncanny confidence, he reached the contraption that had shot out the chain like an oversized harpoon with surprising efficiency, and managed to pull himself on top of it, finding that it was attached to what seemed to be an airship. Hopping down on the top deck of the ‘ship’, he immediately pulled out the bottle of sweet grog stuffed in his sash and took a long swig before taking a look around. One of the Argonians in the party was there; while he couldn’t tell one from another by looking them in the face, its clothing implied that it was Tsleeixth, the more sociable one of the two.
“...The fuck are you doing here, lizardman?” He spat out, with more surprise and questioning in his voice than racial hatred.
He’d managed to stay asleep through the first moments of the attack, likely thanks to being far too drunk to wake up. It wasn’t until he got knocked off his hammock and whacked his face on the floorboards of the deck with the ship getting pulled by the chains that he was brought (somewhat) back into the land of the living. People were rushing by him from all sides; for a moment, he thought that he was a small rodent, thrown into the midst of a stampede. Then he somewhat remembered who he was and where he was. While it didn’t make any sense to him, it did remind him how to move. He spasmed a little to get some feel for how his limbs worked, then, like a baby, he began crawling on the ground to do something.
A pair of hands grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him up to bash him against the bulkheads interrupted that course of action fairly quickly. He murmured something incomprehensible before raising his eyes to see who had roused him from his movement. It was no Mer, certainly, and it wasn’t Dumhuvud. If anything it was a strangely forgettable face. Who was this guy? Why were bandages bursting out of the armor piece that covered his neck? Why was he moving his mouth open and closed constantly? What was he doing? Sadri only realized that he could hear things and that the man in front of him was talking after a few moments of just... existing.
“Dunmer, you should certainly wake up! Something’s attacking the ship and it’s your duty to fight!”
“Euuwhad, wwhoareyyuou?”
“Oh, for Meridia’s sake,” Marcel muttered to himself before pulling a vial from one of the pouches strapped to his belt. He popped it open and forced an amount of its contents down Sadri’s nostrils, which immediately sent him scrambling to vomit. Sadri felt as if this man had filled his skull with vinegar; his brain was burning. He let out the contents of his stomach quickly; for a moment, the man thought that Sadri was puking blood, for nothing but a reddish liquid came out of his stomach. But he was doing far too good for someone who’d just vomited out his entire blood supply; he assumed it was wine and other drinks. Sadri immediately began rubbing his nose to get out whatever it was that the man had poured in.
“I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU FUCKING CUNT YOU FUCKCUNT AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRR”
Marcel, surprised with the effects of the Cure Poison Potion he’d given the Dunmer, quickly pulled out his steel sword and climbed the ladder to the upper deck, deciding that whatever he’d have to deal with up there would be far better than whatever was happening to Sadri. Of course, finding himself in the midst of a carnage with overgrown seafood attacking the ship, and bits and pieces of people getting flung around by a werewolf, he quickly found that notion incorrect. Nonetheless, he threw himself into the fray with the discipline of a well-trained soldier, quickly forgetting Sadri and that weird situation he’d found himself below deck.
It would seem that the situation wasn’t keen on forgetting him, though; Sadri Beleth suddenly appeared on deck, a bottle of rum in his hand, yelling out a cry at the top of his lungs:
“FUCKING LOBSTER CUUUUUUUUUNTS”
Marcel blinked in disbelief.
“I’LL HAVE YER FUCKIN’ LIMBS FOR DINNER YOU OCTOPUS SHITS,” Sadri roared out, before jumping on top of a Dreugh like an oversized chimpanzee, trying to bite a piece out of its carapace. The undoubtedly surprised creature began flailing its arms, although whether out of pain or fear was not apparent, and began skittering around on deck with the Dunmer on its back like a child trying to fight away an angered nest of bees, trying to get the crazed mer off. Screeching in pain while trying to buzz Sadri off, the Dreugh eventually managed to clasp one of its limbs around his thigh, and pulled him off its back, and suddenly found one of its mandibles crunched between Sadri’s teeth.
The Dreugh had no way of understanding what the Dunmer was shouting; the others on deck could probably understand what “TASTES LIKE YOUR MOM’S FISHCUNT” meant, though no doubt it was still hard to contextualize.
Sadri eventually managed to bite off the creature’s mandible upon pushing his foot against the belly of the Dreugh and pulling his head back, although realized that he’d thrown himself off his feet with the strength of the action. Scrambling midair as to grab a hold of something, his iron palm immediately clasped itself around the first thing that it felt nearby; Sadri felt his entire body weight pull him down for a moment, and found that he was hanging above not the ship, but the sea. He looked up and saw that his hand was wrapped around a chain. While normally he’d ask to himself ”What the fuck” or feel disbelief in just how lucky he had been, right now the concoction that ran through his veins made him angry. Really angry.
Reaching up with his other hand and pulling himself up on the chain, he chewed the Dreugh mandible in his mouth a bit, finding the taste fairly close to crab, and then spat it out into the sea with a look of sheer spite on his face as his eyes made contact with the Dreugh whose jaw he’d just spat into the sea.
Sadri began yelling out shanties as he began climbing the chain instinctively, the way an ape would climb a tree by easily pulling itself up the branches. He’d spent a few years on board, and the experience was nothing new to him; his long limbs and relatively low weight had given him an edge in climbing since his very childhood. Lobbing his gangly limbs upwards with uncanny confidence, he reached the contraption that had shot out the chain like an oversized harpoon with surprising efficiency, and managed to pull himself on top of it, finding that it was attached to what seemed to be an airship. Hopping down on the top deck of the ‘ship’, he immediately pulled out the bottle of sweet grog stuffed in his sash and took a long swig before taking a look around. One of the Argonians in the party was there; while he couldn’t tell one from another by looking them in the face, its clothing implied that it was Tsleeixth, the more sociable one of the two.
“...The fuck are you doing here, lizardman?” He spat out, with more surprise and questioning in his voice than racial hatred.
In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)
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7 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
<Snipped quote by Peik>
Pick one.
The werewolf's already pretty busy now that I've reread orientations, so I suppose he can act as Wylendriel's guard if any dreughs decide to take a shot at her.
In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)
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7 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Sadri will be climbing those chains. He'll be getting high any way he can.
Marcel can distract the werewolf or keep back the Dreughs from someone less tanky. Or perhaps someone could übercharge him with some magic to let him use his ultimate ability, SUPERBLAST™.
Marcel can distract the werewolf or keep back the Dreughs from someone less tanky. Or perhaps someone could übercharge him with some magic to let him use his ultimate ability, SUPERBLAST™.
In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)
→
7 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Featuring @Dervish and @Father Hank
3rd of Last Seed, 4E 205
Solitude, Skyrim
He was alone.
Before him stood three friends, and he was alone. Before him stood three friends, yet he was alone. Before him stood a bottle of spiced wine, a skin of flin, -carrying some trace of her lips still, all the more valuable for it- and a satchel of moon sugar. Before him stood his salvation. His sole companions, his lifelong friends, beckoning him to share his burden, his suffering. Always the same, unchanging, even in the face of Oblivion. Before him stood his damnation. His weaknesses, his vices, his cowardice. Before him stood an escape, a path to set him free. Before him stood a pit that led to nothingness.
Before him stood three friends. Yet she wasn't there.
He could feel his blood pumping against the walls of his veins, as if trying to burst free for release. The inside of his head was aching outwards, just alike. His right eye was once more red, filled with blood that felt as if it'd leak out of his tear ducts; his shirt felt as if it were glued onto him, damp with sweat. The straps that held the artificial arm attached to his stump felt as if they were cutting into his shoulders and his armpit. He wanted to dunk himself in the cold waters of the sea, yet there he was, barely able to move, single atop a double sized bed.
He grabbed a glass from one of the drawers and put it next to the wine bottle.
"Gods be damned," he muttered to himself with a sigh.
Some hours earlier
The conversation with Narzul had gone quite well, in Sadri's opinion; he was right, as was often the case, and that only made him feel better as he walked through the town, his chest flared up with confidence and joy. He'd been a coward in Dawnstar, having been too afraid to talk to her; now, he figured, was the time to make amends and make the most of what little time they could have together. In his hand was a bottle of spiced wine, bought from the elderly woman near the town entrance, and back in the Winking Skeever was a room meant for the two of them only. While he hadn't thought of anything salacious, he hoped that they could just enjoy some alone time with each other.
With a gait heeding to the tempo of a tune that only made sense to Sadri, he walked down the stairs to the docks; that's where the Dawnstar party was stationed, he had been told. He had also been told that bad things had happened at Dawnstar while they were gone. He hoped that Solveig was fine, somewhat concerned with what could have happened to her with her hot-blooded and aggressive attitude, but this was no time for bad thoughts. For all he dared to care, right now, he was riding merrily along to his darling. A fine trot, with spurs that jingle jangle jingle.
Yet below by the docks, where their employer Gustav had converted a part of his warehouse to act as a clinic for his mercenaries, he found the place strangely lacking. Lacking in Solveig, lacking in that bitter beauty who deserved to be loved, and to be happy. He wandered around a little, going through where the wounded of Dawnstar were located; and while he saw some that he knew amongst those who were bedridden, such as that weird little Breton and that large Khajiit, Rhasha'dar, he did not see Solveig. While it was not unexpected that she would not be wounded, for she was quite adept with the shield, her absence nonetheless propped up some unpleasant alternatives in his mind.
Trying to hide the blooming worry inside himself, he kept on walking around with a slow pace and a pretend relaxedness, looking for someone that could lead him to wherever she had gone off to.
As if on cue, a feline voice asked from behind the Dunmer. “Sadri?” Do’Karth came up behind him, carrying a bucket of soiled rags that he’d changed on the wounded over the past several minutes. “Are you unwell?”
“Hm? No, no, I’m fine, catty man,” Sadri replied to the Khajiit in his usual manner. “Just came down here from town. Must’ve been some awful stuff you’ve bothered with here,” he mentioned absently, pointing at the bucket, before continuing. “You know where Solveig is, perchance? I haven’t stumbled onto her yet,” he asked, in actuality not really concerned at all with what Do’Karth had been up to until this point.
“It’s nothing serious, the restoration mages have dealt with the worst of it. Do’Karth is simply picking up the slack. One gets used to seeing what normally resides inside the body outside when you decide to heal people.” Do’Karth replied, setting the bucket down, “Perhaps you should come with this one, this is best discussed in private.”
Leading Sadri to his examination room, Do’Karth took a seat and gestured for Sadri to follow suit. From the look on the Khajiit’s face, Sadri likely gathered it wasn’t good news.
“Do’Karth has no idea where Solveig went. She disappeared shortly before the Tear began loading bodies, supplies, everything to make for Solitude. He has tried to look for her, and she never came to the clinic, and he never saw her while onboard… granted, this one wasn’t particularly looking. Even others this one has spoken to have not seen her; it is as if she vanished while everyone was distracted.” Do’Karth said, leaning against his wrists, knowing the words must have been cutting like daggers; he knew exactly how Sadri felt about Solveig. It wouldn’t be all that different of a sensation if Do’Karth found Sevine missing.
“Do’Karth is sorry. He has tried to find Solveig, and he fears she might have gone back for Jorwen.”
Sadri did not respond. For a moment, he was sitting in the makeshift clinic, facing Do'Karth; the next, he was sitting underneath a tree by the outskirts of Dawnstar, facing Solveig. He smiled faintly. Then the moment passed, and he was there in the examination room again, nothing had changed. Except that somehow, the room, and everything and everyone around him, was now hell. He looked at the torturous tiger demon standing in front of him with little wonder, and rose up from his seat of damnation. Despite its mundane looks it was quite adept at stabbing poisoned daggers into Sadri's back like a treacherous Shadowscale.
He walked out of the torture chamber, wrapped in an iron maiden made of his own flesh and blood, feeling strangely hollow. The insides of his eyeballs itched, and his teeth felt as if they were imploding. There was a faint sensation in his throat, as if he had been force-fed a sea urchin which kept him from breathing, but it did not hurt as much as the emptiness inside his belly. It was rather surprising, and all the more hurtful. Everything felt like a blur of pain and suffering. He'd loved, again, and again, his love was gone. His cheekbones ached, as if they could cave in any moment.
Before he knew it, he was back in that room in the Winking Skeever, naked save for his long underpants and the strapped sleeve that kept his arm in place, looking at the three objects of vice standing in front of him, his brain lurching and burning inside his skull like molten lava. An hour later, he was twitching and crying on the bed, his nostrils and mouth painted white with moon sugar, and spiced wine dripping from the side of his mouth like blood would drip from the mouth of a recently fed monster. A few hours later, with the combined efforts of spiced wine and moon sugar, he was eventually subdued, and sent sinking into the arms of Vaermina, as he giggled softly atop the pillow wettened by an obscene amount of tears, and quietly fell asleep.
Somefuckingtime Somefuckingwhen
Where the fuck am I anyway
He woke up to a knock on his door.
“Beleth? Beleth, is that you there? Beleth? Are you awake?”
Truth be told, he'd been awake. The sugar, the divine sweet that he had only consumed in distilled form so far, had offered him far different types of sensation upon getting ingested through the nose, through the mouth, and mixed with wine respectively, and with this divinity flowing through his veins, he had become awake. He had soared above the sky and the land and the realms, and the membrane between the realms, above the petty grievances of mortals such as he, above the petty sorrows of relativity. Here, there, for a time, it had not mattered; he'd perspired outside his skin, and his moisture had made sweet love to Kynareth in the clouds and rained down upon the mortal coil. His flesh had been consumed by Namira in ecstasy. His bones had been ground up and blown four ways into the winds of time by Akatosh. He had become part of something beyond Sadri.
Now, in the flesh, and all the more weak for it, he was asleep again. Asleep in the waking world, and mad with sanity. He felt the claws of his weak 'Self' pierced deep into his brain like nails, sizzling and injecting him, poisoning him with selfhood, time and space. As this weakness leaked back into his head, he felt himself become mortal, temporary, and deathly cold once more. Thrice-damned sensation tinged back into his limbs, and with it came a smothering feeling of sweat and dehydration. He tried to raise his voice as to shut up whoever it was that kept knocking on the door, but all that came out was a slur that quickly died down. Every knock echoed in his brain like the rumbling of thunder. Trying to pull himself up from the bed, he placed his numb feet on the floor and pushed himself up with his iron hand, and immediately fell on the ground with an audible thud.
“Beleth, what's going on?”
The young voice behind the door was yet insistent. He managed to gather enough spit and strength in his mouth to slur out something that made sense.
“I'm here, for fuck's sake! Shut the fuck up!”
The voice went quiet.
“...Thank you,” Sadri huffed out in relief. Crawling on the ground until he felt enough strength in his arms once more, he pushed himself up and propped his torso against the edge of the bed to get to a sitting position. With sensation, also came back information. Memory. He slowly began remembering what had driven him to this binge, and that began pooling in his stomach like black ichor. A wholly different sensation took over. Pain, but not of the aching, burning sort. Pain of loss, a coldness that could freeze even Dagon's realms over, gaping within his torso. He raised his head up, looking at the table.
“Sweet Sanguine.”
An empty bottle of spiced wine, its mouth glistening with sugar. Lines of sugar atop a broken mirror shard. A few other bottles, all empty. A still life of earthly delights, a fine representation of vices, and what they leave after the high. The skin of flin was nowhere in sight, save a dribble on the table's edge with the drink's distinctive orange color. Not even an echo of her lips would stay with her, it seemed. He took a deep breath, although it felt almost poisonous to breathe. He grabbed the mirror shard and licked the Moon Sugar off it, rubbing it into his gums with the tip of his tongue. It made his teeth ache, but it was also an immediate jolt that sparked some more energy into his limbs.
The door knocked again, softer this time.
“Um, Beleth? Look, it's just me, Dough-Boy. I-I didn't mean to be a bother, it's just that Edith asked me to gather a roll call. You were nowhere in sight the last day and, well, that's not a good thing. They expect everyone on the ship in a few hours, so there's that."
“...Isn't it the Fourth?”
“It's the Fifth. The Company will be heading off today.”
Sadri sighed.
“Right. Tell her I'll be down at the docks shortly.”
Noon, 5th of Last Seed, 4E205
The Kyne's Tear
The speed at which he had gotten himself ready had surprised even Sadri. He'd gotten clothed, bundled up the rest of his Moon Sugar into a tight packet, let Mora suck off some of the excess blood pooling in his eye, drank an obscene amount of water to hydrate himself, and bought a metallic bottle of vermouth in no more than forty minutes. Now, here he was, looking like a desiccated mummy forgotten on deck, but here he was nonetheless. There was a damn invasion going on and he'd been with the group through the thick of it, they had to cut him some slack. He wiped some cold sweat off his brow, rested his back against the chest that kept his belongings, and took a sip from his bottle of knock-me-down. Life was shit and she was gone. Yet there he was still.
“Great gods of nowhere, Sadri,” a concerned voice piped up to his left. Niernen approached him and sank down on her haunches next to him. “You look… well, you look like shit.” Her wide eyes and raised eyebrows spoke volumes of the worry she felt at the sight -- she had heard by now that Solveig had disappeared before the Company left Dawnstar, and this was the first time she’d seen Sadri since then. She resisted the urge to ask if he was okay. He obviously wasn’t. Instead, she just gingerly placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”
Sadri, having casually ignored Niernen until the point where she asked him what happened, turned his somewhat swollen and confused looking eyes to her face, his head leaning backwards a bit, and opened his mouth to reply, but at first all that got out was a slur as his tongue rolled around inside his mouth, as if searching for words behind his cheeks. “Well, uh, there ain't much to talk about, uh, is there?” He asked, with a sincerely confused tone. “I'd, I didn't just expect that to happen, you know, just, uh... Yeah. I wonder... Uh, I wonder.” His head suddenly fell forwards, slumped.
“Fucking Hell, Niernen,” he suddenly raised his head and opened his eyes in almost terrifying alertness, “Is there not a fucking chance for me to have something good stay in my life? I know we weren't all that close, Sol and I, but it uh, it felt as if we wanted to love each other, you know? Give it a chance. Maybe that's why I tried. Because, well, kindred spirits, that's what I felt. She's like me. She deserves better. Then I fucked it up.” He breathed out of his nose, and then breathed in as sharply as he could, in search of refreshment.
Her heart almost leapt out of her throat when Sadri suddenly snapped into focus and she had to had to catch herself before she fell backwards. After she’d recovered from the shock, Niernen’s face fell as Sadri blurted out his words. It was obvious when one looked at his face and the various bits and pieces that were missing elsewhere that Sadri’s life had been one of incredible hardship. She remembered her talk with Sadri, when they were on their way to Bleakrock Isle, during which she had encouraged him to tell Solveig how he felt. She’d been happy for him. He deserved happiness. Narzul had told her in a few choice words about the things Sadri had said to him two days ago. Niernen was smart enough to read between the lines of what Narzul was saying and realize that Sadri had been trying to help her brother come to his senses. Sadri’s heart was in the right place, she knew, which made it all the more gut-wrenching to see him reduced to this state now, once again alone. “Oh, Sadri,” she sighed and bit her lower lip. What could she do?
“You must not lose hope,” Niernen said, remembering something her mother had said to her once. She decided to sit down next to Sadri and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, comrades-in-arms. “This war is rotten. And I know what you’re going to say, you’ll correct me and say the world is rotten, and then I’d say that I understand you have good cause to argue that point. But it’s not all bad.” She paused and swallowed hard. “It's okay to… grieve, you know? Just don't lose yourself in it. Solveig would've kicked you in the head for that. I'm glad to see you're still here, with us.”
Sadri slumped back down. “Right, right,” he replied, somewhat irritated. “Easier said than done, innit,” he mumbled to himself as he took another swig from his large bottle of vermouth. “I'd rather if she were here to kick me in the fuckin’ head, y'know,” he continued in a confidant and hushed tone. “Amongst all those damned Snow Giants and all that other shit going on out there... I know I won't be seeing her again. I know.” He put the bottle down, resigned. “Suppose that's another reason to fuckin' kill 'em all.” He sighed. “Never shoulda come to Skyrim. Last I took on a contracted job here, I ended up amongst fuckin' cannibals somewhere near fuckin’ Atmora,” he continued, chuckling. “Wonder how long it'll last before we end up fightin' one another for a fuckin’ piece o’ corpsemeat.”
Niernen visibly shivered at the thought but latched onto the moment of humor, devoid of levity as it may have been. It was better than letting Sadri wallow in his misery. “I give it a month,” she whispered in an equally conspiratorial tone of voice and winked. “Who do you think we should eat first? I think the Altmer looks pretty tasty. What’s his name again? I thought he was gone too but I just saw him arguing with Duhumvud.”
Sadri didn't expect Niernen to turn his weapon of wallowing onto him and make it into an actual topic of black humor. Impressed with the girl, this time he chuckled not at himself but at the joke. “I expected you'd have better taste in men,” he replied, smirking at the innuendo. “His name's Keegan. I thought he was gone myself, but I guess he couldn't resist the charm of enjoying Dummyfoot's company.” He took a breath, and raised his brows in contemplation. It was hard not to think about Solveig. “As for the meat... You know, I hear Bosmer can actually be a delicacy. Maybe we should make friends with that priest while we have the chance? She looks like she'd be an easy chew,” he added, picking at one of his front teeth with his thumb nail. “Or maybe your brother,” he suddenly blurted out, with the impression of a crazed man on his face. “Would be an easy spitroast with that stick already up his ass.” He chuckled wildly.
Even if the joke was at her brother’s expense (or maybe because it was), it was reason for Niernen to laugh along with him. “Ha! True, but he would be hard to cook properly, being ash-kin and all that. But I’ve burned Dunmer to death before. It should be possible.” She grinned ear-to-ear and squeezed Sadri’s shoulder. It felt as good to see him laugh as it hurt to see him suffer. She had ignored some of the things he said, like that he’d “fucked up” something regarding Solveig, and decided to leave it that way. “What’s that you’re drinking?” she asked and pointed at the bottle in his hands.
“Vermouth,” he replied, suddenly sullen again with the laughter wearing off. “Light stuff. Don't think I should be touching anything heavy after the last couple of days.” His gaze went down, pointing at his belly. His head went down accordingly not long after. “You're a kind lass, Niernen. You can be a fuckin' sociopath, but you're nice. You still don't have to babysit my sorry ass,” he confided. “This sort of thing doesn't just... go away. Caring about it won't make it any better. It just, well... hurts. You've already got enough on your plate with your brother and, well, the fuckin' war. Don't worry yourself about it. I've gone through worse.” In truth, amongst the varieties of pain that Sadri had experienced, few hurt as much as the loss of a loved one. But still, by some wicked circumstance, he'd become accustomed to it, as with most of those other pains; that old familiar feeling.
“Still, I appreciate it. It's not like you're obliged to lift the spirits of everyone in this damn company,” he continued, offering the bottle to the mage. “Want some?”
Niernen thought about the offer for a second -- but only a second. “Gods, yes,” she said and took a long, grateful swig. She thought herself to be wise beyond her years, but Sadri’s words showed that he still had her beat in that regard. It was true that she couldn’t make everyone’s suffering go away with a moment of kindness and some shared laughter. Niernen sighed at the realization. “Life isn’t fair,” she mumbled and gave the bottle back to Sadri. “I’ll still worry about you, I can’t help that. But if you say that you’ll be alright, I believe you.” Her coppery eyes turned to look at him sideways, trying to discern his emotional state, but she also felt a little disturbed that he’d called her a sociopath. Was she slipping that far?
Sadri agreed to her passing remark with an enthusiastic nod; for all he knew, it was part of the condition of existence; that it would not be enjoyable, nor fair. Not even the afterlife he could trust. What little he'd read on the matter had some rather disturbing implications. “You can trust me on the matter, really,” he replied, smirking with disbelief, eyes laden with dejection.
“Besides, what else can you do about it than to believe?”
3rd of Last Seed, 4E 205
Solitude, Skyrim
He was alone.
Before him stood three friends, and he was alone. Before him stood three friends, yet he was alone. Before him stood a bottle of spiced wine, a skin of flin, -carrying some trace of her lips still, all the more valuable for it- and a satchel of moon sugar. Before him stood his salvation. His sole companions, his lifelong friends, beckoning him to share his burden, his suffering. Always the same, unchanging, even in the face of Oblivion. Before him stood his damnation. His weaknesses, his vices, his cowardice. Before him stood an escape, a path to set him free. Before him stood a pit that led to nothingness.
Before him stood three friends. Yet she wasn't there.
He could feel his blood pumping against the walls of his veins, as if trying to burst free for release. The inside of his head was aching outwards, just alike. His right eye was once more red, filled with blood that felt as if it'd leak out of his tear ducts; his shirt felt as if it were glued onto him, damp with sweat. The straps that held the artificial arm attached to his stump felt as if they were cutting into his shoulders and his armpit. He wanted to dunk himself in the cold waters of the sea, yet there he was, barely able to move, single atop a double sized bed.
He grabbed a glass from one of the drawers and put it next to the wine bottle.
"Gods be damned," he muttered to himself with a sigh.
Some hours earlier
The conversation with Narzul had gone quite well, in Sadri's opinion; he was right, as was often the case, and that only made him feel better as he walked through the town, his chest flared up with confidence and joy. He'd been a coward in Dawnstar, having been too afraid to talk to her; now, he figured, was the time to make amends and make the most of what little time they could have together. In his hand was a bottle of spiced wine, bought from the elderly woman near the town entrance, and back in the Winking Skeever was a room meant for the two of them only. While he hadn't thought of anything salacious, he hoped that they could just enjoy some alone time with each other.
With a gait heeding to the tempo of a tune that only made sense to Sadri, he walked down the stairs to the docks; that's where the Dawnstar party was stationed, he had been told. He had also been told that bad things had happened at Dawnstar while they were gone. He hoped that Solveig was fine, somewhat concerned with what could have happened to her with her hot-blooded and aggressive attitude, but this was no time for bad thoughts. For all he dared to care, right now, he was riding merrily along to his darling. A fine trot, with spurs that jingle jangle jingle.
Yet below by the docks, where their employer Gustav had converted a part of his warehouse to act as a clinic for his mercenaries, he found the place strangely lacking. Lacking in Solveig, lacking in that bitter beauty who deserved to be loved, and to be happy. He wandered around a little, going through where the wounded of Dawnstar were located; and while he saw some that he knew amongst those who were bedridden, such as that weird little Breton and that large Khajiit, Rhasha'dar, he did not see Solveig. While it was not unexpected that she would not be wounded, for she was quite adept with the shield, her absence nonetheless propped up some unpleasant alternatives in his mind.
Trying to hide the blooming worry inside himself, he kept on walking around with a slow pace and a pretend relaxedness, looking for someone that could lead him to wherever she had gone off to.
As if on cue, a feline voice asked from behind the Dunmer. “Sadri?” Do’Karth came up behind him, carrying a bucket of soiled rags that he’d changed on the wounded over the past several minutes. “Are you unwell?”
“Hm? No, no, I’m fine, catty man,” Sadri replied to the Khajiit in his usual manner. “Just came down here from town. Must’ve been some awful stuff you’ve bothered with here,” he mentioned absently, pointing at the bucket, before continuing. “You know where Solveig is, perchance? I haven’t stumbled onto her yet,” he asked, in actuality not really concerned at all with what Do’Karth had been up to until this point.
“It’s nothing serious, the restoration mages have dealt with the worst of it. Do’Karth is simply picking up the slack. One gets used to seeing what normally resides inside the body outside when you decide to heal people.” Do’Karth replied, setting the bucket down, “Perhaps you should come with this one, this is best discussed in private.”
Leading Sadri to his examination room, Do’Karth took a seat and gestured for Sadri to follow suit. From the look on the Khajiit’s face, Sadri likely gathered it wasn’t good news.
“Do’Karth has no idea where Solveig went. She disappeared shortly before the Tear began loading bodies, supplies, everything to make for Solitude. He has tried to look for her, and she never came to the clinic, and he never saw her while onboard… granted, this one wasn’t particularly looking. Even others this one has spoken to have not seen her; it is as if she vanished while everyone was distracted.” Do’Karth said, leaning against his wrists, knowing the words must have been cutting like daggers; he knew exactly how Sadri felt about Solveig. It wouldn’t be all that different of a sensation if Do’Karth found Sevine missing.
“Do’Karth is sorry. He has tried to find Solveig, and he fears she might have gone back for Jorwen.”
Sadri did not respond. For a moment, he was sitting in the makeshift clinic, facing Do'Karth; the next, he was sitting underneath a tree by the outskirts of Dawnstar, facing Solveig. He smiled faintly. Then the moment passed, and he was there in the examination room again, nothing had changed. Except that somehow, the room, and everything and everyone around him, was now hell. He looked at the torturous tiger demon standing in front of him with little wonder, and rose up from his seat of damnation. Despite its mundane looks it was quite adept at stabbing poisoned daggers into Sadri's back like a treacherous Shadowscale.
He walked out of the torture chamber, wrapped in an iron maiden made of his own flesh and blood, feeling strangely hollow. The insides of his eyeballs itched, and his teeth felt as if they were imploding. There was a faint sensation in his throat, as if he had been force-fed a sea urchin which kept him from breathing, but it did not hurt as much as the emptiness inside his belly. It was rather surprising, and all the more hurtful. Everything felt like a blur of pain and suffering. He'd loved, again, and again, his love was gone. His cheekbones ached, as if they could cave in any moment.
Before he knew it, he was back in that room in the Winking Skeever, naked save for his long underpants and the strapped sleeve that kept his arm in place, looking at the three objects of vice standing in front of him, his brain lurching and burning inside his skull like molten lava. An hour later, he was twitching and crying on the bed, his nostrils and mouth painted white with moon sugar, and spiced wine dripping from the side of his mouth like blood would drip from the mouth of a recently fed monster. A few hours later, with the combined efforts of spiced wine and moon sugar, he was eventually subdued, and sent sinking into the arms of Vaermina, as he giggled softly atop the pillow wettened by an obscene amount of tears, and quietly fell asleep.
Somefuckingtime Somefuckingwhen
Where the fuck am I anyway
He woke up to a knock on his door.
“Beleth? Beleth, is that you there? Beleth? Are you awake?”
Truth be told, he'd been awake. The sugar, the divine sweet that he had only consumed in distilled form so far, had offered him far different types of sensation upon getting ingested through the nose, through the mouth, and mixed with wine respectively, and with this divinity flowing through his veins, he had become awake. He had soared above the sky and the land and the realms, and the membrane between the realms, above the petty grievances of mortals such as he, above the petty sorrows of relativity. Here, there, for a time, it had not mattered; he'd perspired outside his skin, and his moisture had made sweet love to Kynareth in the clouds and rained down upon the mortal coil. His flesh had been consumed by Namira in ecstasy. His bones had been ground up and blown four ways into the winds of time by Akatosh. He had become part of something beyond Sadri.
Now, in the flesh, and all the more weak for it, he was asleep again. Asleep in the waking world, and mad with sanity. He felt the claws of his weak 'Self' pierced deep into his brain like nails, sizzling and injecting him, poisoning him with selfhood, time and space. As this weakness leaked back into his head, he felt himself become mortal, temporary, and deathly cold once more. Thrice-damned sensation tinged back into his limbs, and with it came a smothering feeling of sweat and dehydration. He tried to raise his voice as to shut up whoever it was that kept knocking on the door, but all that came out was a slur that quickly died down. Every knock echoed in his brain like the rumbling of thunder. Trying to pull himself up from the bed, he placed his numb feet on the floor and pushed himself up with his iron hand, and immediately fell on the ground with an audible thud.
“Beleth, what's going on?”
The young voice behind the door was yet insistent. He managed to gather enough spit and strength in his mouth to slur out something that made sense.
“I'm here, for fuck's sake! Shut the fuck up!”
The voice went quiet.
“...Thank you,” Sadri huffed out in relief. Crawling on the ground until he felt enough strength in his arms once more, he pushed himself up and propped his torso against the edge of the bed to get to a sitting position. With sensation, also came back information. Memory. He slowly began remembering what had driven him to this binge, and that began pooling in his stomach like black ichor. A wholly different sensation took over. Pain, but not of the aching, burning sort. Pain of loss, a coldness that could freeze even Dagon's realms over, gaping within his torso. He raised his head up, looking at the table.
“Sweet Sanguine.”
An empty bottle of spiced wine, its mouth glistening with sugar. Lines of sugar atop a broken mirror shard. A few other bottles, all empty. A still life of earthly delights, a fine representation of vices, and what they leave after the high. The skin of flin was nowhere in sight, save a dribble on the table's edge with the drink's distinctive orange color. Not even an echo of her lips would stay with her, it seemed. He took a deep breath, although it felt almost poisonous to breathe. He grabbed the mirror shard and licked the Moon Sugar off it, rubbing it into his gums with the tip of his tongue. It made his teeth ache, but it was also an immediate jolt that sparked some more energy into his limbs.
The door knocked again, softer this time.
“Um, Beleth? Look, it's just me, Dough-Boy. I-I didn't mean to be a bother, it's just that Edith asked me to gather a roll call. You were nowhere in sight the last day and, well, that's not a good thing. They expect everyone on the ship in a few hours, so there's that."
“...Isn't it the Fourth?”
“It's the Fifth. The Company will be heading off today.”
Sadri sighed.
“Right. Tell her I'll be down at the docks shortly.”
Noon, 5th of Last Seed, 4E205
The Kyne's Tear
The speed at which he had gotten himself ready had surprised even Sadri. He'd gotten clothed, bundled up the rest of his Moon Sugar into a tight packet, let Mora suck off some of the excess blood pooling in his eye, drank an obscene amount of water to hydrate himself, and bought a metallic bottle of vermouth in no more than forty minutes. Now, here he was, looking like a desiccated mummy forgotten on deck, but here he was nonetheless. There was a damn invasion going on and he'd been with the group through the thick of it, they had to cut him some slack. He wiped some cold sweat off his brow, rested his back against the chest that kept his belongings, and took a sip from his bottle of knock-me-down. Life was shit and she was gone. Yet there he was still.
“Great gods of nowhere, Sadri,” a concerned voice piped up to his left. Niernen approached him and sank down on her haunches next to him. “You look… well, you look like shit.” Her wide eyes and raised eyebrows spoke volumes of the worry she felt at the sight -- she had heard by now that Solveig had disappeared before the Company left Dawnstar, and this was the first time she’d seen Sadri since then. She resisted the urge to ask if he was okay. He obviously wasn’t. Instead, she just gingerly placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”
Sadri, having casually ignored Niernen until the point where she asked him what happened, turned his somewhat swollen and confused looking eyes to her face, his head leaning backwards a bit, and opened his mouth to reply, but at first all that got out was a slur as his tongue rolled around inside his mouth, as if searching for words behind his cheeks. “Well, uh, there ain't much to talk about, uh, is there?” He asked, with a sincerely confused tone. “I'd, I didn't just expect that to happen, you know, just, uh... Yeah. I wonder... Uh, I wonder.” His head suddenly fell forwards, slumped.
“Fucking Hell, Niernen,” he suddenly raised his head and opened his eyes in almost terrifying alertness, “Is there not a fucking chance for me to have something good stay in my life? I know we weren't all that close, Sol and I, but it uh, it felt as if we wanted to love each other, you know? Give it a chance. Maybe that's why I tried. Because, well, kindred spirits, that's what I felt. She's like me. She deserves better. Then I fucked it up.” He breathed out of his nose, and then breathed in as sharply as he could, in search of refreshment.
Her heart almost leapt out of her throat when Sadri suddenly snapped into focus and she had to had to catch herself before she fell backwards. After she’d recovered from the shock, Niernen’s face fell as Sadri blurted out his words. It was obvious when one looked at his face and the various bits and pieces that were missing elsewhere that Sadri’s life had been one of incredible hardship. She remembered her talk with Sadri, when they were on their way to Bleakrock Isle, during which she had encouraged him to tell Solveig how he felt. She’d been happy for him. He deserved happiness. Narzul had told her in a few choice words about the things Sadri had said to him two days ago. Niernen was smart enough to read between the lines of what Narzul was saying and realize that Sadri had been trying to help her brother come to his senses. Sadri’s heart was in the right place, she knew, which made it all the more gut-wrenching to see him reduced to this state now, once again alone. “Oh, Sadri,” she sighed and bit her lower lip. What could she do?
“You must not lose hope,” Niernen said, remembering something her mother had said to her once. She decided to sit down next to Sadri and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, comrades-in-arms. “This war is rotten. And I know what you’re going to say, you’ll correct me and say the world is rotten, and then I’d say that I understand you have good cause to argue that point. But it’s not all bad.” She paused and swallowed hard. “It's okay to… grieve, you know? Just don't lose yourself in it. Solveig would've kicked you in the head for that. I'm glad to see you're still here, with us.”
Sadri slumped back down. “Right, right,” he replied, somewhat irritated. “Easier said than done, innit,” he mumbled to himself as he took another swig from his large bottle of vermouth. “I'd rather if she were here to kick me in the fuckin’ head, y'know,” he continued in a confidant and hushed tone. “Amongst all those damned Snow Giants and all that other shit going on out there... I know I won't be seeing her again. I know.” He put the bottle down, resigned. “Suppose that's another reason to fuckin' kill 'em all.” He sighed. “Never shoulda come to Skyrim. Last I took on a contracted job here, I ended up amongst fuckin' cannibals somewhere near fuckin’ Atmora,” he continued, chuckling. “Wonder how long it'll last before we end up fightin' one another for a fuckin’ piece o’ corpsemeat.”
Niernen visibly shivered at the thought but latched onto the moment of humor, devoid of levity as it may have been. It was better than letting Sadri wallow in his misery. “I give it a month,” she whispered in an equally conspiratorial tone of voice and winked. “Who do you think we should eat first? I think the Altmer looks pretty tasty. What’s his name again? I thought he was gone too but I just saw him arguing with Duhumvud.”
Sadri didn't expect Niernen to turn his weapon of wallowing onto him and make it into an actual topic of black humor. Impressed with the girl, this time he chuckled not at himself but at the joke. “I expected you'd have better taste in men,” he replied, smirking at the innuendo. “His name's Keegan. I thought he was gone myself, but I guess he couldn't resist the charm of enjoying Dummyfoot's company.” He took a breath, and raised his brows in contemplation. It was hard not to think about Solveig. “As for the meat... You know, I hear Bosmer can actually be a delicacy. Maybe we should make friends with that priest while we have the chance? She looks like she'd be an easy chew,” he added, picking at one of his front teeth with his thumb nail. “Or maybe your brother,” he suddenly blurted out, with the impression of a crazed man on his face. “Would be an easy spitroast with that stick already up his ass.” He chuckled wildly.
Even if the joke was at her brother’s expense (or maybe because it was), it was reason for Niernen to laugh along with him. “Ha! True, but he would be hard to cook properly, being ash-kin and all that. But I’ve burned Dunmer to death before. It should be possible.” She grinned ear-to-ear and squeezed Sadri’s shoulder. It felt as good to see him laugh as it hurt to see him suffer. She had ignored some of the things he said, like that he’d “fucked up” something regarding Solveig, and decided to leave it that way. “What’s that you’re drinking?” she asked and pointed at the bottle in his hands.
“Vermouth,” he replied, suddenly sullen again with the laughter wearing off. “Light stuff. Don't think I should be touching anything heavy after the last couple of days.” His gaze went down, pointing at his belly. His head went down accordingly not long after. “You're a kind lass, Niernen. You can be a fuckin' sociopath, but you're nice. You still don't have to babysit my sorry ass,” he confided. “This sort of thing doesn't just... go away. Caring about it won't make it any better. It just, well... hurts. You've already got enough on your plate with your brother and, well, the fuckin' war. Don't worry yourself about it. I've gone through worse.” In truth, amongst the varieties of pain that Sadri had experienced, few hurt as much as the loss of a loved one. But still, by some wicked circumstance, he'd become accustomed to it, as with most of those other pains; that old familiar feeling.
“Still, I appreciate it. It's not like you're obliged to lift the spirits of everyone in this damn company,” he continued, offering the bottle to the mage. “Want some?”
Niernen thought about the offer for a second -- but only a second. “Gods, yes,” she said and took a long, grateful swig. She thought herself to be wise beyond her years, but Sadri’s words showed that he still had her beat in that regard. It was true that she couldn’t make everyone’s suffering go away with a moment of kindness and some shared laughter. Niernen sighed at the realization. “Life isn’t fair,” she mumbled and gave the bottle back to Sadri. “I’ll still worry about you, I can’t help that. But if you say that you’ll be alright, I believe you.” Her coppery eyes turned to look at him sideways, trying to discern his emotional state, but she also felt a little disturbed that he’d called her a sociopath. Was she slipping that far?
Sadri agreed to her passing remark with an enthusiastic nod; for all he knew, it was part of the condition of existence; that it would not be enjoyable, nor fair. Not even the afterlife he could trust. What little he'd read on the matter had some rather disturbing implications. “You can trust me on the matter, really,” he replied, smirking with disbelief, eyes laden with dejection.
“Besides, what else can you do about it than to believe?”
In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)
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7 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
@Peik I'm not entirely sure Sadri and Samuel L. Jackson aren't the same person. I mean, have you ever seen them in the same *EXPLETIVE* room?
"Enough is enough! I have had it with these motherfuckin' Kamals on this motherfuckin' plane!"
-Sadri Beleth, spoken shortly before he attained CHIM and wiped Akavir off existence
In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)
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7 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
I decided to take a shot at the prompt.
In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)
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7 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
<Snipped quote by Gcold>
Thanks!
I've made the changes requested :) I was waiting to hear anything from Peik, but I'll chuck this up now and wait for that feedback :)
Frankly Cold's critique is thorough enough that it makes me feel as if anything I say would be nitpicking.
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The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)
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7 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
@DearTrickster, I personally like the character, although I find her perhaps a bit too frail for regular pirate work, given how you've mentioned she's 'physically not a match for anybody'. I'd be happy if you could specify what sort of role she had on the ship, considering how most roles on a sailing ship include a fair amount of grueling physical work.
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