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Sitting across Father McNamara was his apprentice, Maurice of Mitrowitz, Lightbringer to the Order of the Gracious Saint Massard of Mitrowitz, and novice Church Investigator; Unlike the good father, Maurice had spent the majority of the journey napping, his head either resting atop one of his shoulders or against the window frame, miraculously comfortable with the constant rattling of the carriage atop the tracks. It was perhaps not leaving the best of impressions on his new superior, but Maurice wasn't the sort of fellow who was particularly knowledgeable about leaving a good impression; for him, there wasn't much more to show than merit at work, and acting in good faith. And thus he could sleep.
Or so he thought.
Suddenly jolted forward out of his sleep and almost into the small table built under the window frame, Maurice barely managed to prevent his face getting bashed into the furniture and possibly causing him to require medical attention. His mind, it seemed, worked slower than his reflexes did; it took him a few seconds to comprehend what had just occurred, and by that time, his superior had already begun lecturing Maurice while loading his pistol in the meantime. Not wanting to stutter out a flimsy agreement and make himself look weak, Maurice merely nodded as his eyes darted out to where his oversized 'instrument case' had been. Thankfully for him, the sheer weight of its contents had kept the case from flying out of where Maurice had tucked it; with a firm grasp, Maurice pulled it from its spot as his superior this time lectured him on the dangers of brashness, and asked him to grab a lantern. As expected, Maurice complied.
Outside, under the bright moonlight, Maurice found the lantern somewhat useless for a second, but deduced that it would be of use to find possible victims obscured by shadows. Plus, it was likely that the light sources inside the carriages were not of use anymore; from the voices that he could make out, things weren't going all too well inside them, and there was little doubt that somebody would have to go inside them to carry out the incapacitated or wounded. And there was no doubt that he would be amongst those 'somebodies'. It was, after all, his position's duty, not to mention the right thing to do; out of his immense strength, if not anything else. Although that would be delayed by incoming news, relayed by a fellow who looked like he'd just arrived from four hundred years ago. Sword, shield and mail, in this age... "And they call me outdated," he thought to himself.
Listening to the prehistoric (because everybody knew that history did not matter before gunpowder) warrior's words, Maurice could not help but look at his superior, awaiting permission to go into the derailed carriages and begin hauling the victims out. "Shall I, master?" He asked, to expedite his superior's response. While he had respect for those above him in merit and degree, this was not time for following formal protocol. Not when innocent lives are at stake.
Or so he thought.
Suddenly jolted forward out of his sleep and almost into the small table built under the window frame, Maurice barely managed to prevent his face getting bashed into the furniture and possibly causing him to require medical attention. His mind, it seemed, worked slower than his reflexes did; it took him a few seconds to comprehend what had just occurred, and by that time, his superior had already begun lecturing Maurice while loading his pistol in the meantime. Not wanting to stutter out a flimsy agreement and make himself look weak, Maurice merely nodded as his eyes darted out to where his oversized 'instrument case' had been. Thankfully for him, the sheer weight of its contents had kept the case from flying out of where Maurice had tucked it; with a firm grasp, Maurice pulled it from its spot as his superior this time lectured him on the dangers of brashness, and asked him to grab a lantern. As expected, Maurice complied.
Outside, under the bright moonlight, Maurice found the lantern somewhat useless for a second, but deduced that it would be of use to find possible victims obscured by shadows. Plus, it was likely that the light sources inside the carriages were not of use anymore; from the voices that he could make out, things weren't going all too well inside them, and there was little doubt that somebody would have to go inside them to carry out the incapacitated or wounded. And there was no doubt that he would be amongst those 'somebodies'. It was, after all, his position's duty, not to mention the right thing to do; out of his immense strength, if not anything else. Although that would be delayed by incoming news, relayed by a fellow who looked like he'd just arrived from four hundred years ago. Sword, shield and mail, in this age... "And they call me outdated," he thought to himself.
Listening to the prehistoric (because everybody knew that history did not matter before gunpowder) warrior's words, Maurice could not help but look at his superior, awaiting permission to go into the derailed carriages and begin hauling the victims out. "Shall I, master?" He asked, to expedite his superior's response. While he had respect for those above him in merit and degree, this was not time for following formal protocol. Not when innocent lives are at stake.
This could be pretty fun (or horribly frustrating). I'll throw in my interest.
In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)
→
6 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Featuring @Gcold
Upon seeing Gustav's anxiety flare upon talking to the two Nords, and noticing the duo's attention turned towards him, Sadri decided the only viable tactic right now would be to deflect the attention. “Go with the flow,” Sadri thought to himself as he relaxed his muscles to help with his game - that being, playing dumb. The glass of brandy in his hand began shaking, and his feet became dizzier with every step; by the time he was alongside Gustav and the dynamic duo, he might as well have been drunk, mentally impaired, or merely very dumb.
He put his iron hand on Gustav's shoulder as he began speaking. “Oh Gustav, friend,” he asked with a slurry monotone voice that reeked of brain damage, “who are these people?”
For all Gustav cared, Sadri might as well have brain damage for real. Gustav frowned; instead of trying to talk his way out, Sadri had chosen to play dumb. It was dumb, because there’s no way the Dunmer could be drunk after only one sip of brandy. Rather than turning the Swiftsong twins away, Sadri’s bout only drew more of their attention.
“Well, as you all know,” Gustav mused, trying to pull Sadri into standing straight, “I have many friends here.”
“You do?” Janne quipped.
“I do, thank you very much.” Gustav shot back.
“So, then-” Jens began.
“Then I think you should recognize each other.” Gustav looked to Sadri for help, but to no avail.
“We should?” Said Janne.
Gustav was about to sigh, but he caught his breath midway and turned it into an awkward chuckle. If the twins weren’t curious before, they certainly were now. They flanked Gustav like vultures, and with likewise fascination.
“Heh, you folks, heh.” Gustav chuckled again, nervously. He looked to Sadri one last time, and decided that if the Dunmer could fool him at Dawnstar, then there’s a decent chance he’d do it again here. “How could you two not recognize Madura Dalas here? And Madura, wow, remind me not to drink that, couldn’t even remember your old editors! Ha, forgot all those articles the Swiftsongs published for you for a cup of brandy!”
“Madura?” One of the twin stopped in confusion.
“Dalas?” The other one followed.
“Yes-” Gustav nodded.
“I swear you were a lot shorter,” Jens circled in front of Sadri and leaned in to examine, “and much smoother on the face.”
“And could hold your drinks a lot better.” Janne added. “You downed half a keg during the New Life festival back in 203, and barely batted an eye.”
“And, by Stendarr, what happened to your hand?” Jens pointed to the metal piece resting on Gustav’s shoulder. “Haven’t seen this year and-”
“Look, friends, Madura and I had a bit of,” Gustav searched for the best word, “adventures, this year. You know, the kind that-” That sounded absolutely not right.
“Why don’t you tell our old friends yourself, Madura?” Gustav clapped Sadri’s back so hard, that it was basically a slap. Then Gustav gave Sadri a stern look of get your (bull)shit together. “Or should we take you to the lavatory?”
After almost falling face-down thanks to Gustav's encouraging pat on the back, Sadri shut his mouth with his hand as he looked over to the Swiftsong twins, before coming eye to eye with Gustav. For a moment one could've thought that he'd lost his cognitive abilities for real, but from there, he jutted his head back with sudden realization, and offered his iron hand for a handshake. “I apologize, friends,” he began speaking slowly, “it is not the drink but, as my friend here says, adventures. I, uh,” Sadri rubbed his chin, “had the misfortune of getting shot at…”
After shaking the Dunmer’s metal hand apprehensively, the duo seemed nonplussed, and Sadri himself realized that 'getting shot at' did not exactly cover the extent of the scarring he bore, so he played his trump card, which bore the virtue of being not exactly untrue.
“...by artillery. Still recovering, thanks to Gustav here. He paid for the arm, the healers... It only does so much, though. I'm sure you understand.” He lightly tapped one of the scars on his forehead, one earned years ago in the Abecean Sea. “Memory issues. It's, it's…” He rubbed his eyes as if he were holding tears back, pinching open the often-swollen vein that Mora helped empty for extra dramatic flare. To an unaware onlooker, he'd seem as if he were crying blood from his right eye.
”Better get a raise for this,” Sadri thought as he wiped bloody tears away from his eye and put on his most hapless and sadness-inducing expression. “...It's horrible... I keep forgetting. My past, my writing... I could not recognize my very brother.”
“Indeed.” Gustav immediately followed up. “The battles were harrowing; Madura sacrificed his own limb to chronicle the heroism of our brave warriors. The rest of the world wouldn’t be able to comprehend the horror at Windhelm and Dawnstar if not for him risking his life on the frontlines. I used to admire my friend for his candidness, and now I admire his courage on top of that.”
“And it’s no exaggeration; the Kamals do have ironclad ships shooting giant ice spikes.” Gustav gestured with his arm. “We’ve ran into one of them, right after Madura encountered his brother leading a band of Ashlander warriors in the name of the Nerevarine.”
“After?” One of the Swiftsongs perked up.
“Uh, after Madura was hit initially, and after encountering the Ashlanders.” Gustav corrected, taking a gulp of his own brandy. “Heh, lots of ‘afters’.”
Being the journalists they were, the Swiftsongs were no less apprehensive than they were initially. However, their focus shifted to something other than “Madura’s” identity. Jens grabbed a cup of cocktail from a passing servant, sipping it while appraising the Dunmer’s story. Janne, on the other hand, began sketching in her notepad.
“Windhelm; what was it like?” Jens asked. “Did the city actually fall because of the Jarl’s son’s foolishness? Were there truly thousands of bodies being dumped into the sea?”
“Why do you think your brother decided to fight for the Nerevarine?” Janne didn’t even give Gustav and Sadri a moment to breath before her own questions came out. “You hardly spoke of him before.”
“Look, I think-” Gustav tried to excuse Sadri and himself.
“Did you see the Kamals riding eight-legged bears?”
“Were the Ashlanders wearing crab shells? Did they practice sanitation like you propostulated?” The questions flooded out.
“How about we give Madura a moment to answer, and breath, eh?” Gustav suggested. He urged the group to continue walking forward along the garden, and enter the main courtyard. At this point, nothing Sadri could cook up would be less suspicious than walking away. “He’s a bit slower than he used to be.”
“A moment, yes, yes…” Sadri muttered in agreement with Gustav as the group moved further into the courtyard. He took another sip of his brandy before spotting an empty bench aside a circular pool, in which he noticed two colorful carps with immensely long barbels, swimming in perfect circles. He feigned fixation with the pool and the fish, which allowed him to walk over to the bench and make himself comfortable in answering the questions. Sitting down, he rested his good arm on his thigh and began scratching his chin as he watched the fish, in an attempt to imitate fool's wisdom and come up with answers to the twins' questions.
After an awkward minute of silence in which Sadri played contemplative monk while the others immersed themselves in the absurdity of the scene, he raised his head up as if awoken from a trance and turned his head to face the twins.
“Hmm, good questions, good questions... I shall tell you what I can remember… Windhelm... I do not remember the fall, but the corpses, I do... Bloated, burst, floating away into the night sea…”
Sadri shook his head in horror. “...And yes, I remember, I remember the beasts... The demons atop them, hounding after us, constant…”
He reached out suddenly and grabbed Janne's arm. “You are writing all these down, yes? Write it all, before I forget. Before I…”
Janne jumped when Sadri grabbed her arm. “What in Oblivion!?” She pushed the metal hand away, dropping her notepad in the process.
Jens also jumped in surprise. Though he held on to his own pages and recovered Janne's pad. “You didn't give us anything to write about.” Jens shook his head, as he gave back Janne's notepad.
Gustav didn't jump, though he finally cracked a genuinely amused smile. “Oh, his stories are more than just words.” Gustav changed to a serious facade. “It's in the eyes; the words won't be clear unless you gaze deep, and bare your soul to the pits.”
“That makes absolutely no sense!” Janne did look into the Dunmer's eyes, but she found only a blood-fouled mess in one of them. Throwing up her arms in frustration, Janne tucked her notepad securely away, and herself well beyond Sadri’s reach.
“His mind is beyond repair.” Jens pointed out for his twin. He looked at the fish pond, then back to the Dunmer sitting by it, as if drawing similarities. “Madura, we told you this ‘embedded journalism’ was reckless; now the Gazette lost one of its finest journalists because of it!”
“Now, now, friends,” Gustav stepped in without thinking, “Sadri expected to be thanked for his service, not this slandering.”
“Sadri?”
“Oh shit!” Gustav muttered under his breath. He immediately switched to self-righteousness in attempt to recover. “That's right, bet you don’t know that word; it's Dunmeris for ‘selfless hero’, bestowed upon the few comparable to Madura Dalas.”
“Yes, yes, hearty hero, selfless… it’s in… Ashlander? I used to remember…” Sadri rubbed his chin. “It’s all in my journals, you see, my journals… What happened to them?” He asked, looking at Gustav with a quite convincing, inquisitive expression on his face.
“I heard Sadri was the name of a whaler.” Jens narrowed his eyes.
“Indeed, our associates in Morrowind ran a story on that a couple of years back.” Janne quipped.
Seeing the situation going absolutely nowhere, Gustav balled his fists and decided to do something drastic in order to end it here. “That's fake news, just like the entire Gazette nowadays. Deception, misinformation, dishonoring heroes; I'm withdrawing my sponsorship, and my subscription!”
“How dare you!?” Janne began raising her voice.
“Forget it.” Jens suggested, pushing gently nudging Janne away. He wrote a few lines with hard and sharp strokes, no doubt condescending comments. “You'll find your name in the editorials, instead of advertisements.”
“Good night, sir.” The Swiftsongs said in unison, and one pair of dirty looks later, they're gone.
Gustav sucked in a deep breath, only to choke and cough. He drank from the liquor cup next, only to find the brandy suddenly poor tasting, and quickly pour the remaining sip into the pond. He looked around the garden, the only movement greeting him was a peacock displaying its plumage and chirping like it's mocking him. Finally, Gustav sat down beside Sadri, a humorless snort escaped from his mouth.
“Wasn't as bad as I expected.” Gustav stared straight ahead. He stretched his legs and looked at Sadri appraisingly. “Though definitely could be a lot better. Anyone ever said anything about your penchant for acting? Well, you should sign up for drama courses at the Bards College.”
“Well, boss,” Sadri began his reply with a somewhat wary but candid tone, “I’ve had some experiences in that line of work, now that you’ve mentioned… But I’m not exactly sure if now’s the time for such stories. Could be a lot better, like you said, but it got the job done… I think. Who knows, maybe if I survive all this and have the money, I may take up on your advice, give it a shot.”
Sadri himself turned to take a look at the impressively smug peacock and spent a moment in silence, as if its vividly colored plumage was a gateway to a higher degree of contemplation. “Haven’t had many moments to appreciate such things in life lately,” he thought to himself; “fine brandy, fine clothes, fine scenery…” He let out a quiet sigh and turned his attention back to Gustav.
“It couldn’t be much worse than this line of work, could it?” He asked, with a hint of a chuckle.
“Well, if you live the finer life long enough, you’ll start craving adventures again.” Gustav replied, scratching his cheek and watching the peacock stroll away. “But I suppose there’s hardly ever a rest for us wicked people, and I can certainly think of worse places to be right now.”
“Not much worse than where we were a few days back,” Sadri shot back. “As for the future, It doesn’t look all that good to me…”
He paused for a few seconds.
“I guess the only thing left is to enjoy the moment.”
Afternoon, Last Seed 16
Royal Garden, Evermore Castle
Royal Garden, Evermore Castle
Upon seeing Gustav's anxiety flare upon talking to the two Nords, and noticing the duo's attention turned towards him, Sadri decided the only viable tactic right now would be to deflect the attention. “Go with the flow,” Sadri thought to himself as he relaxed his muscles to help with his game - that being, playing dumb. The glass of brandy in his hand began shaking, and his feet became dizzier with every step; by the time he was alongside Gustav and the dynamic duo, he might as well have been drunk, mentally impaired, or merely very dumb.
He put his iron hand on Gustav's shoulder as he began speaking. “Oh Gustav, friend,” he asked with a slurry monotone voice that reeked of brain damage, “who are these people?”
For all Gustav cared, Sadri might as well have brain damage for real. Gustav frowned; instead of trying to talk his way out, Sadri had chosen to play dumb. It was dumb, because there’s no way the Dunmer could be drunk after only one sip of brandy. Rather than turning the Swiftsong twins away, Sadri’s bout only drew more of their attention.
“Well, as you all know,” Gustav mused, trying to pull Sadri into standing straight, “I have many friends here.”
“You do?” Janne quipped.
“I do, thank you very much.” Gustav shot back.
“So, then-” Jens began.
“Then I think you should recognize each other.” Gustav looked to Sadri for help, but to no avail.
“We should?” Said Janne.
Gustav was about to sigh, but he caught his breath midway and turned it into an awkward chuckle. If the twins weren’t curious before, they certainly were now. They flanked Gustav like vultures, and with likewise fascination.
“Heh, you folks, heh.” Gustav chuckled again, nervously. He looked to Sadri one last time, and decided that if the Dunmer could fool him at Dawnstar, then there’s a decent chance he’d do it again here. “How could you two not recognize Madura Dalas here? And Madura, wow, remind me not to drink that, couldn’t even remember your old editors! Ha, forgot all those articles the Swiftsongs published for you for a cup of brandy!”
“Madura?” One of the twin stopped in confusion.
“Dalas?” The other one followed.
“Yes-” Gustav nodded.
“I swear you were a lot shorter,” Jens circled in front of Sadri and leaned in to examine, “and much smoother on the face.”
“And could hold your drinks a lot better.” Janne added. “You downed half a keg during the New Life festival back in 203, and barely batted an eye.”
“And, by Stendarr, what happened to your hand?” Jens pointed to the metal piece resting on Gustav’s shoulder. “Haven’t seen this year and-”
“Look, friends, Madura and I had a bit of,” Gustav searched for the best word, “adventures, this year. You know, the kind that-” That sounded absolutely not right.
“Why don’t you tell our old friends yourself, Madura?” Gustav clapped Sadri’s back so hard, that it was basically a slap. Then Gustav gave Sadri a stern look of get your (bull)shit together. “Or should we take you to the lavatory?”
After almost falling face-down thanks to Gustav's encouraging pat on the back, Sadri shut his mouth with his hand as he looked over to the Swiftsong twins, before coming eye to eye with Gustav. For a moment one could've thought that he'd lost his cognitive abilities for real, but from there, he jutted his head back with sudden realization, and offered his iron hand for a handshake. “I apologize, friends,” he began speaking slowly, “it is not the drink but, as my friend here says, adventures. I, uh,” Sadri rubbed his chin, “had the misfortune of getting shot at…”
After shaking the Dunmer’s metal hand apprehensively, the duo seemed nonplussed, and Sadri himself realized that 'getting shot at' did not exactly cover the extent of the scarring he bore, so he played his trump card, which bore the virtue of being not exactly untrue.
“...by artillery. Still recovering, thanks to Gustav here. He paid for the arm, the healers... It only does so much, though. I'm sure you understand.” He lightly tapped one of the scars on his forehead, one earned years ago in the Abecean Sea. “Memory issues. It's, it's…” He rubbed his eyes as if he were holding tears back, pinching open the often-swollen vein that Mora helped empty for extra dramatic flare. To an unaware onlooker, he'd seem as if he were crying blood from his right eye.
”Better get a raise for this,” Sadri thought as he wiped bloody tears away from his eye and put on his most hapless and sadness-inducing expression. “...It's horrible... I keep forgetting. My past, my writing... I could not recognize my very brother.”
“Indeed.” Gustav immediately followed up. “The battles were harrowing; Madura sacrificed his own limb to chronicle the heroism of our brave warriors. The rest of the world wouldn’t be able to comprehend the horror at Windhelm and Dawnstar if not for him risking his life on the frontlines. I used to admire my friend for his candidness, and now I admire his courage on top of that.”
“And it’s no exaggeration; the Kamals do have ironclad ships shooting giant ice spikes.” Gustav gestured with his arm. “We’ve ran into one of them, right after Madura encountered his brother leading a band of Ashlander warriors in the name of the Nerevarine.”
“After?” One of the Swiftsongs perked up.
“Uh, after Madura was hit initially, and after encountering the Ashlanders.” Gustav corrected, taking a gulp of his own brandy. “Heh, lots of ‘afters’.”
Being the journalists they were, the Swiftsongs were no less apprehensive than they were initially. However, their focus shifted to something other than “Madura’s” identity. Jens grabbed a cup of cocktail from a passing servant, sipping it while appraising the Dunmer’s story. Janne, on the other hand, began sketching in her notepad.
“Windhelm; what was it like?” Jens asked. “Did the city actually fall because of the Jarl’s son’s foolishness? Were there truly thousands of bodies being dumped into the sea?”
“Why do you think your brother decided to fight for the Nerevarine?” Janne didn’t even give Gustav and Sadri a moment to breath before her own questions came out. “You hardly spoke of him before.”
“Look, I think-” Gustav tried to excuse Sadri and himself.
“Did you see the Kamals riding eight-legged bears?”
“Were the Ashlanders wearing crab shells? Did they practice sanitation like you propostulated?” The questions flooded out.
“How about we give Madura a moment to answer, and breath, eh?” Gustav suggested. He urged the group to continue walking forward along the garden, and enter the main courtyard. At this point, nothing Sadri could cook up would be less suspicious than walking away. “He’s a bit slower than he used to be.”
“A moment, yes, yes…” Sadri muttered in agreement with Gustav as the group moved further into the courtyard. He took another sip of his brandy before spotting an empty bench aside a circular pool, in which he noticed two colorful carps with immensely long barbels, swimming in perfect circles. He feigned fixation with the pool and the fish, which allowed him to walk over to the bench and make himself comfortable in answering the questions. Sitting down, he rested his good arm on his thigh and began scratching his chin as he watched the fish, in an attempt to imitate fool's wisdom and come up with answers to the twins' questions.
After an awkward minute of silence in which Sadri played contemplative monk while the others immersed themselves in the absurdity of the scene, he raised his head up as if awoken from a trance and turned his head to face the twins.
“Hmm, good questions, good questions... I shall tell you what I can remember… Windhelm... I do not remember the fall, but the corpses, I do... Bloated, burst, floating away into the night sea…”
Sadri shook his head in horror. “...And yes, I remember, I remember the beasts... The demons atop them, hounding after us, constant…”
He reached out suddenly and grabbed Janne's arm. “You are writing all these down, yes? Write it all, before I forget. Before I…”
Janne jumped when Sadri grabbed her arm. “What in Oblivion!?” She pushed the metal hand away, dropping her notepad in the process.
Jens also jumped in surprise. Though he held on to his own pages and recovered Janne's pad. “You didn't give us anything to write about.” Jens shook his head, as he gave back Janne's notepad.
Gustav didn't jump, though he finally cracked a genuinely amused smile. “Oh, his stories are more than just words.” Gustav changed to a serious facade. “It's in the eyes; the words won't be clear unless you gaze deep, and bare your soul to the pits.”
“That makes absolutely no sense!” Janne did look into the Dunmer's eyes, but she found only a blood-fouled mess in one of them. Throwing up her arms in frustration, Janne tucked her notepad securely away, and herself well beyond Sadri’s reach.
“His mind is beyond repair.” Jens pointed out for his twin. He looked at the fish pond, then back to the Dunmer sitting by it, as if drawing similarities. “Madura, we told you this ‘embedded journalism’ was reckless; now the Gazette lost one of its finest journalists because of it!”
“Now, now, friends,” Gustav stepped in without thinking, “Sadri expected to be thanked for his service, not this slandering.”
“Sadri?”
“Oh shit!” Gustav muttered under his breath. He immediately switched to self-righteousness in attempt to recover. “That's right, bet you don’t know that word; it's Dunmeris for ‘selfless hero’, bestowed upon the few comparable to Madura Dalas.”
“Yes, yes, hearty hero, selfless… it’s in… Ashlander? I used to remember…” Sadri rubbed his chin. “It’s all in my journals, you see, my journals… What happened to them?” He asked, looking at Gustav with a quite convincing, inquisitive expression on his face.
“I heard Sadri was the name of a whaler.” Jens narrowed his eyes.
“Indeed, our associates in Morrowind ran a story on that a couple of years back.” Janne quipped.
Seeing the situation going absolutely nowhere, Gustav balled his fists and decided to do something drastic in order to end it here. “That's fake news, just like the entire Gazette nowadays. Deception, misinformation, dishonoring heroes; I'm withdrawing my sponsorship, and my subscription!”
“How dare you!?” Janne began raising her voice.
“Forget it.” Jens suggested, pushing gently nudging Janne away. He wrote a few lines with hard and sharp strokes, no doubt condescending comments. “You'll find your name in the editorials, instead of advertisements.”
“Good night, sir.” The Swiftsongs said in unison, and one pair of dirty looks later, they're gone.
Gustav sucked in a deep breath, only to choke and cough. He drank from the liquor cup next, only to find the brandy suddenly poor tasting, and quickly pour the remaining sip into the pond. He looked around the garden, the only movement greeting him was a peacock displaying its plumage and chirping like it's mocking him. Finally, Gustav sat down beside Sadri, a humorless snort escaped from his mouth.
“Wasn't as bad as I expected.” Gustav stared straight ahead. He stretched his legs and looked at Sadri appraisingly. “Though definitely could be a lot better. Anyone ever said anything about your penchant for acting? Well, you should sign up for drama courses at the Bards College.”
“Well, boss,” Sadri began his reply with a somewhat wary but candid tone, “I’ve had some experiences in that line of work, now that you’ve mentioned… But I’m not exactly sure if now’s the time for such stories. Could be a lot better, like you said, but it got the job done… I think. Who knows, maybe if I survive all this and have the money, I may take up on your advice, give it a shot.”
Sadri himself turned to take a look at the impressively smug peacock and spent a moment in silence, as if its vividly colored plumage was a gateway to a higher degree of contemplation. “Haven’t had many moments to appreciate such things in life lately,” he thought to himself; “fine brandy, fine clothes, fine scenery…” He let out a quiet sigh and turned his attention back to Gustav.
“It couldn’t be much worse than this line of work, could it?” He asked, with a hint of a chuckle.
“Well, if you live the finer life long enough, you’ll start craving adventures again.” Gustav replied, scratching his cheek and watching the peacock stroll away. “But I suppose there’s hardly ever a rest for us wicked people, and I can certainly think of worse places to be right now.”
“Not much worse than where we were a few days back,” Sadri shot back. “As for the future, It doesn’t look all that good to me…”
He paused for a few seconds.
“I guess the only thing left is to enjoy the moment.”
In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)
→
6 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Clothes, Cake and Lemonade
Noon, Last Seed 15
Holly's Hammam, Evermore
Holly's Hammam, Evermore
It turned out that Sadri’s skin color was actually a touch lighter than he’d thought.
Perhaps for the first time since he’d enrolled with Gustav’s Company, Sadri had taken a proper bath. Not a quick scrub-down of the pits, hair and the nether regions with soap and cold water, or unwanted exposure to rain or seawater, but a proper, well deserved bath in a hot, steamy sauna owned by a jolly old Nord lady. While he’d added some extra Septims on top of the usual fee to get himself his own private room with flowing hot water, the extra purse he’d gotten from Gustav for the sake of outfitting had made it guilt-free. And it was there, whilst rubbing his skin with a mitten of coarse wool, that he found out that beneath the ever-present coating of grime, dirt and dried sweat, he was paler than what he’d seen the last time he’d seen his reflection.
Of course, this wasn’t the only surprise that he’d faced in the bath; he’d also realized just how accustomed he had become to his prosthetic arm. After a quick unstrapping and removal of the attachment sleeve, he’d come face to face with the stump he had in place of a lower right arm. He thought of all the time he’d spent on this mortal coil, and felt disappointed. Like a grindstone, life had whittled away bits and pieces of him; pieces not just like flesh and bone, but also hope, enthusiasm, elation. He didn’t feel any sharper. If anything, he was just coming closer to the end. He remembered a couplet from a poem he’d read years ago:
This whirling wheel is a mill yielding agony;
Beneath it, we’re the grain ground as it goes.
“And so it goes on,” Sadri thought to himself, before rubbing his stumped arm with the mitten. “And so it goes on.”
Sadri left the bath feeling as warm and light as steam. Physically, he’d scraped almost a pound of grime off his skin, cleared his hair thoroughly and taken a comb and proper razor to the mess his beard had become. The uneven scar tissue made it hard for him to get a clean shave, but his past occupation as a barber meant he had the skill and experience not to cut deeper than necessary. Shaving his face clean save for the thick sideburns that nearly reached his lower lips, and applying balm to give them proper shape, he found the impression he’d made on passersby had changed for the positive.
More importantly, though, he’d come to terms with yet another flaring existential crisis. His old life was gone, Solveig was gone, he wasn’t going to get what he wanted in life (perhaps there really was nothing he wanted in life), and there was nothing he could do but to accept that. As weak as that made him feel, Sadri had come to realize how denial of it would lead to nothing but further self-destruction. One freak incident with a Sload necromancer he could survive high on Skooma and booze, but he knew that even he had mortal limits; his magically mended heel was proof of that. At some point he was going to break. Break in a way that a prosthetic couldn’t fix.
So, he knew. He needed to be a new person. Because the old one was failing, fast. And what better way to celebrate a new outlook than to build yourself a new image?
Early Morning, Last Seed 16
Sir Groin and Co. Fine Tailoring, Evermore
Sir Groin and Co. Fine Tailoring, Evermore
“Are you sure you wish for a doublet that bright red, sir? With the slashes and color of that tunic you have chosen, it looks… awful violent, does it not? It’s rather provocative.”
“Oh, please, it is a banquet, my good man. The entire point is to tread the fine line between provocative and crass,” Sadri replied to the old, amiable tailor. “And I, Madura Dalas, deserve such a look for my first public appearance since my… gross wounding, I would say,” he added, eyeing his mechanical arm regretfully.
The tailor smiled. “It does make sense when you put it that way, sir. I remember when the Earl of Warwick wore bone tipped gloves and a hair shirt under his slashed doublet to his celebration, after he was dubbed the Wolf of Warwick for his exploits against the Brigands of Cracktusk. It had made quite a commotion in the circles.”
Sadri nodded. “That’s precisely it. The exploits of the Tamrielic Gazette deserve to be known further; what better way to remind them how we suffer in our toil to gather news, than to show them myself, rightfully, as a wounded man?”
“That’s a capital outlook, sir! I like the cut of your jib, if I may say.”
Sadri felt that his words had touched the sole surviving specks of youthful idealism he must have had as an apprentice tailor. Over time, even this quaint fellow had turned into a balding hobbit, spending his days and toiling his craft out of sheer habit, his passion extinguished. Sadri solemnly looked at his spindly fingers to try and find something occupy his mind, and to fan the cloud of sadness away… And found just what he needed. More bling.
“Thank you, my man, thank you… You’d mentioned a friend running the jewelry store one street above, hadn’t you?”
Noon, Last Seed 16
Used Sundries, Evermore
Used Sundries, Evermore
As expected, things were much simpler for Marcel.
While he’d been somewhat disheartened by his failure to save the Bosmer, and also his brush with hypothermia following said failure, there was really nothing to do but to move on, Marcel knew. He’d failed many things before, and suffered many things because of his failures. But he considered them naught but occasional mishaps in the bigger picture. He remembered the adage of the Torchbearers, the cult that he’d ended up as cohorts with back in Hammerfell; “Acts of good are not always wise, and acts of evil not always foolish; regardless, strive to do good.” He wouldn’t quit trying just because it’d make things easier for him. That was just not right, he was taught. And Marcel was a good pupil.
The upcoming banquet mission made the impression of an interesting change in pace for him; a situation where he actually had to disarm to proceed. As a Hunter of High Rock, Marcel was obliged to ‘bear arms against foe, mundane or magic, at all times’, and by his own admission he was somewhat conservative when it came to principles such as these. But he’d been taught how to stand by his principles while also adhering to the customs of the majority. As Master Diarmid used to say, when amongst Septims, do as the Septims do. So he did, by way of a small, decorated letter opener made of silver. While it had some lethal capability, it was about as much as a dinner knife, and guests were privy to much more than that in the banquet. He could only thank the Gods for Hunter attire being a matter of fashion and keeping him from having to try and find new clothes, although, by Gustav’s orders, he still had to get his coat tailored further.
Thankfully, Gustav had bought a tailor’s services, because of some of his comrades’ unwise investments in their clothing allowance, and Marcel knew he could cut costs there by merely buying the material necessary for a more suitable coat. While the man seemed experienced and assured Marcel that he could embroider the appropriate goldwork atop his buff coat in no time, he was rather perplexed about Marcel’s request to line chainmail into its collar until the Breton ended up unfastening his gorget and showed the man the recent and severe wounding his neck received. The transaction turned fairly quiet afterwards. There was not much more to do from that point but to wait. While he’d also spent money on a dueling doublet and also a scaled gauntlet for the banquet, these were already at hand, although the cuffs on the doublet needed trimming.
Marcel decided to spend the remainder of the money on replenishing his stock of potions, adding some more vials to his satchel, and more importantly, buying some well-made pastry. After the bloodbath that was the Smuggler’s Cove, he figured that he, and everyone else, could use some sweet sugar (no, not that kind of sugar) to take a load off their minds. Though he, being the one who’d thought of this sweet gesture, obviously deserved the lion’s share. Mentally adding up the costs of the necessities and the tailoring, he figured he only had around 40 Septims left from Gustav’s allowance. 15 Septims for his own food expenses, 10 Septims for some Sambocade, 10 Septims for a carafe of lemonade… those pesky alcoholics would not be able to appreciate the beverage on its own, though, would they? 5 Septims for a small glass of rum to be mixed into the carafe… and that was it, really. Excellent. He could proceed.
It turned out that, unfortunately, a whole cake of proper Sambocade cost more than 10 Septims, and Marcel had to make do with only 5 Septims’ worth of pancakes to be able to afford enough for the whole party. Okay, maybe he’d eaten 10 Septims’ worth, and instead sourced the rum from the store kitchen's stocks, but he was a member of the Company anyway, so there was no problem, was there? Plus, the bakery owners had generously let him keep the small vial of honey that they’d served alongside the pancake plate, and there was enough in it to flavor the cake further, in case his colleagues found the flavor of elderflower, rose and berry far too fleeting. Either way, there it was, on a tray: A carafe of thick glass, filled to the brim with ice and rum-reinforced lemonade, a knife, a vial of honey, a whole beautiful baked cheesecake on a plate, covered with raspberry and smelling of rose; and a bunch of wooden cups, for everyone to drink and be merry.
He grabbed the tray firmly and walked into the dressing room, hoping to make a good memory amongst the plethora of bad ones that they’d accrued over the last few weeks.
In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)
→
6 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Edited Sadri and Marcel's sheets accordingly with latest events (namely, suiting up for the Banquet). Their appearances, skills, equipment and opinions have all been updated. Hope I managed to get across the garishness of Sadri's new outfit through description alone; it was an incredible pain for me to try and find reference pictures that weren't worn. Will make IC posts for both characters to keep up with their updated sheets in due time. Hope you like it, everyone (if you enjoy rereading slightly modified character sheets, that is).
More importantly, of course, Merry Christmas. And enjoy your Landsknecht Dunmer pimp.
More importantly, of course, Merry Christmas. And enjoy your Landsknecht Dunmer pimp.
In
The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)
→
6 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Featuring @Gcold and @Spoopy Scary
Morning, Last Seed 10
Conclave of the Golden Tomb, Jehanna
“Arkay’s law, which we bestow upon the deceased, that their corporeal forms may not be raised to unlawful servitude.”
The priests had been droning on for gods know how long. Keegan was getting sick and tired of listening. Why did Gustav make them attend this boring and sad event? It’s not like Keegan, or any other mercenaries, actually give a damn about these four in coffins. Two of the four were closed caskets anyway, so bringing a whole bunch of people to reflect on how brutal Roze and Adaeze died seemed untasteful to Keegan. He found himself staring at the golden altars, true to the name of the conclave, and finding disgusted similarities to Tmeip’r’s golden airship. Looking behind the priests, Keegan saw the figure Arkay in stained glass, looking high and mighty, and too condescending for mortals to mere mortals to find comfort in.
What disturbed Keegan, other than guards busting their warehouse in the middle of night and flipping through everyone’s belongings, was Dumhuvud being their new commander. There was nearly no other that the Cat-Kicker picked on more often than Keegan, and in those instances Keegan did not wish to recall, Ashav’s presence had been the barrier between discipline and execution. It was now only a matter of time before Dumhuvud let himself go and Keegan would be the one in one of those coffins. There’s nothing more he hated than the image of people pressing a lettered tile to pay respect.
Well, there were other people the Cat-Kicker “accomodated”. The new (and old) Khajiit was one of them, in fact, Keegan saw the beating with his own eyes. There was also Sadri Beleth, being singled out multiple times for “disciplinary actions”. Keegan knew what people say in these situations; the enemy of my enemy is my friend. For what he had in mind, there’s no better friend than Dar’Jzo and Sadri.
Excusing himself quietly from the pews, Keegan walked through the nave to where Sadri and Dar’Jzo sat.
“Let’s talk outside for a minute,” Keegan whispered to them, “about our new commander.”
Dar’Jzo’s needle-like eyes fell on the altmer at the sound of his whisper. The old khajiit studied him for a moment, like it was a tense look of suspicion, but then he nodded and agreed, “Yes. Let’s…”
It would be fair to say that Dar’Jzo’s mind has not left the matter ever since he heard the news of Dumhuvud’s new promotion. When sight of Jehanna first came to view, all he could think about what his grandson -- this was it, this was the place where he was at. Where the Winterhold mages and students had fled to after the near destruction of the College. His long and arduous journey had at last come to an end, but when he heard the title of commander being attached before the Cat-Kicker’s name, he was all that mattered. With that awful Nord’s reputation, there was no imagining what he’d do now that he wielded more power. If he was allowed free reign throughout Jehanna, there was no imagining what would happen if he crossed paths with Saddi. Truth be told, Dar’Jzo’s imaginations have already been long at work about what to do with Dumhuvud before Keegan spoke to him. He nearly forgot on multiple occasions that he was attending a funeral.
As for Sadri, he’d put two and two together way before the funeral. He wasn’t sure as to why he’d picked the spot next to the new Khajiit – was he too afraid to look his comrades in the face, or was he latently yearning for more sugar? Better not be the case, he thought, after all that had transpired back in Solitude and aboard the Tear. He occasionally felt besieged by random things; tinnitus, the blood pumping in his veins, the temperature, but he knew he had to endure. Just as he had to endure all the loss around him. He felt guilty, too, about Solveig, about Roze, the ones whose absences he believed was his own doing. And now he had to endure other things. He had to endure his new commander, which seemed to be somewhat of a problem, given how Dumhuvud was not as willing to compromise as he was. But Sadri always prided himself on being somewhat of a problem solver, and it seemed to him that he wasn’t alone in wanting to fix this new problem.
When they walked out, Sadri shot a cursory glance at Dar’Jzo, and then looked back at Keegan for a sign of confirmation on whether the Khajiit was to be trusted or not. “I assume it is our mutual loss that has brought us here together,” he said, looking at neither of them in particular, his tone a mockery of a priest’s or a speaker’s. “Am I correct?” He asked, his suspicious glare peering straight into Dar’Jzo’s eyes. The Khajiit peered back.
“Dar’Jzo regrets not knowing the dead well enough to feel their loss.” He replied with his accented, gravelly voice. “They deserve more than this one’s apathy, yes? More than some of us.”
Sadri nodded upon hearing the Khajiit’s statement, taking it as a sign of being accomplices. His glare softened into a simple gaze of caution. “Yes, yes, I’m glad we are in agreement,” he replied, his tone still carrying on with the charade. “Those we mourn today were certainly better people than most of us. Ah, well, death is unjust, they say. Always picks the wrong people. Let’s hope the living don’t make that mistake,” he added, his gaze moving back onto Keegan.
“Very unfortunate losses indeed. I believe the martyrs would like the best of us to live a long life, and for the worst us, a swift justice.” Keegan crossed his arms, not giving the others a visible expression on his face. “Death is not solely in the hands of Arkay; we do have a say, no matter how quiet it is.”
Uncrossing his arms and glancing around, Keegan was certain that no one else was around to hear to them in this corner outside of the temple. Dumhuvud certainly wouldn’t; he didn’t even have the heart to attend the funeral.
“I find it so inauspicious that many had died to accidents. Our esteemed commander, Ashav, fell from a lighthouse.” Keegan tried to sound somber, but he was far more angry and impatient. He involuntarily fidgeted with his hands; Keegan shook his head. “What would happen if the same misfortune befalls upon the Cat-Kicker? I, for one, would not spend much time grieving.”
“With so many departing our company recently, would another death be suspicious? Or just routine?” Keegan shrugged. He felt uncomfortable about what to say next, so Keegan looked around. The area is still unoccupied beside them. Keegan swallowed a lump in throat.
“If the next death is any one of us, it would probably be because of Dumhuvud, and there’s nothing any one of us can do about.” Keegan sighed.
“But if Dumhuvud is the next to die, no one would be certain who the killer is.” Keegan cut straight to the chase. “We owe our fallen comrades a better leader, and we owe ourselves an end to abuse. All we need is to give the Cat-Kicker a little push; don’t you agree?”
“This one has already given it much thought.” Dar'Jzo admitted grimly with a slight bow of his head. “But not without help. Hmph, Dar'Jzo thinks he can adapt his strategy. It would take time, but that depends…”
“Well, Keegan said it first, not me, but I can’t help but agree with you two fellows on the matter,” Sadri chimed in after Dar’Jzo, his lower lip pouted. “We owe our living comrades a good leader as much as we owe our fallen, and as… stubborn as our beloved Dummy is, I’m not sure if he can hold up to late Ashav’s standards, Arkay bless his soul.”
He paused for a moment.
“…And considering that even his standards weren’t enough to keep him from losing his life in a tragedy, I’m not sure if our new leader has a chance. Plus, I don’t think he’s garnered enough love from anybody around him for them to search for him if he were to disappear.”
Sadri wouldn’t admit it, but it wouldn’t be the first time when he’d had a colleague of his disappear, either.
“Disappear?” Dar’Jzo repeated. The old khajiit leaned in. “Then the elves are not just interested in simple butchery? If they seek to prowl Sangiin’s hollow, Dar’Jzo can show the way… but know they must leave something valuable behind.”
Sadri’s face soured for a moment. “...Couldn’t we find a way without leaving valuables?” He asked, after a few seconds of silence. “Could just go for a quick dump in the sewers.”
The khajiit looked at him with a curious tilt of his head, but then gestured toward the lighthouse. “Think like the lighthouse. Embarking on a dark voyage, you must find your way back or become lost. We stay focused -- forget your emotions. What is your lighthouse?” A glimpse of Saddi flashed behind Dar’Jzo’s eyes. “Know why you kill before you do, and be sure it is of strong foundation. Poor ones become mudslides and are slippery.”
“Very well, gentlemen.” Keegan nodded in appreciation of the dark planning going on. “I believe the lighthouse is the most accident-prone location in this city, certainly where our new leader may repeat his predecessor’s mistake.”
“While people can disappear, we are in a foreign place where they can resurface without us knowing.” Keegan suggested. “It is better for us to act quickly, instead of worrying about the details and losing the opportunity in the end.”
“You can make poisons,” Keegan pointed towards the nodding Dar’Jzo, “and I can lure him to the lighthouse.” Then Keegan motioned to Sadri with his thumb. “You have an eye for accidents, correct?”
“...I don’t see why we don’t just gut him in an alleyway, honestly,” Sadri replied. “But I suppose I have an eye for accidents. I guess.”
Dar’Jzo added, “two deaths shortly after The Tear makes port ill for its repute. Should the sin of three make murderers of a whole crew? They should hide or mislead. Fewer guards on this one’s tail, the better, as Dar’Jzo sees it.”
“The more advantage we have, the less chance for him to struggle.” Keegan reminded Sadri. “We have to make this quick for the Cat-Kicker, because we can’t stoop to his level and make him suffer needlessly. And, you know, loud dying screams tend to attract unwanted attention.”
“Let’s not waste any time, gentlemen.” Keegan concluded. “I shall find a ‘private’ way to bring our friend to the party. While you, Sadri, clear the premise. And you, Dar’Jzo, prepare his ‘refreshments’.”
Afternoon
Jehanna Harbor
The warehouse was clear; no one’s there except for Keegan and Dumhuvud, and Dumhuvud didn’t know Keegan’s there. There was a desk in the office allotted to him by Gustav, and on the desk, a letter looking strangely out of place. Had it been Ashav instead, the letter would have been examined under further scrutiny. But this was the Cat-Kicker, and he hadn't the slightest patience.
Dumhuvud screamed out in anger. He was about to tear up the paper when another line came into focus. How did he miss it? It couldn't have popped onto the paper.
“I slaughtered an entire Stormcloak detachment to avenge my family!” Dumhuvud bellowed. His fist squeezed the paper tight until he was going to destroy it. Then he noticed words growing out of the backside. Dumhuvud was so mad that he didn't even notice it was not how ink worked.
Dumhuvud took his axe and slammed it straight into the desk, nearly splitting it in half and smirking when he heard the desk gasp. Then he stormed out of the warehouse, so full of anger that he didn't notice the doors opening themselves again after he had slammed them shut.
Ten minutes later...
Keegan never thought it could work in his wildest dreams. He almost chickened out before going through with his plan in the first place, and when he saw Dumhuvud all worked up, it took all he had to not run off in fear, and keep his excretions within his body. But it worked out splendidly. Someone believed that piece of paper he enchanted in five minutes, and the obstruction spell that hid Dumhuvud's shield shouldn't have been convincing with the way it flickered so often. Then again, the Cat-Kicker was too stupid to notice that the words weren't real; they're planted into his vision through enchantments and altered with Keegan's illusions. Finally, Dumhuvud missed Keegan hiding under the very desk (crouched tight, shaking and holding up an invisibility spell) he nearly chopped apart. It was pretty intense when the axe almost got Keegan's head. Thankfully, Gustav had a good desk, or it would have been awkward popping into plain view with a two-part skull.
As Dumhuvud stomped towards the lighthouse, Keegan tailed behind him, still invisible. Keegan made illusory crowds in Dumhuvud's vision so that he took paths not noticed by most people. Soon enough, they were in front of the lighthouse.
It was an unoccupied clearing. Keegan heard earlier that the lighthouse keeper had been arrested and fired for neglect; he had been absent for more than just last night. Someone from the city guards would be tending to the light after nightfall. But now, in bright daylight, they simply locked the lighthouse up and left it be.
“Come out and die!” Dumhuvud yelled, axe in hand and ready to chop.
Only silence replied. It would appear Keegan's co-conspirators had the wisdom to not engage this mad lad in open combat. Now, Keegan summoned a faint flicker on top of the lighthouse, and Dumhuvud turned his head upwards, sneered and approached the entrance. He saw the door was unlocked for some reason, as the lock was so flimsy that any lockpick, opening spell or a strong shove could've opened it. Thoughts of suspicion creeped into Dumhuvud, but he never expected to be climbing to his doom.
Outside, Keegan sat down on a log. The continous manipulation through illusion spells had exhausted him. He was in no shape to help Dar'Jzo and Sadri up there. Keegan only hoped they would be the ones walking back down, or it would be real awkward to explain everything to Dumhuvud.
From atop the lighthouse…
“The Cat-Kicker comes.” Dar’Jzo said to Sadri at this side. He grabbed the mason jar at his side and held his breath, reaching it to grab a soaking-wet rag and wringing out the excess. It was a poison that he made sure was as inconspicuous as possible if the guards had enough presence of mind to check with the local alchemists and read into their sales history. It was made mostly from your typical household ingredients -- chicken eggs, honeycomb, salt, wheat, bone meal, and small antlers, including some other things he could harvest on his own like spider eggs and skeever tails. Floating around inside the liquified and distilled mixture was a giant’s toe for good measure. He cautiously held the rag and the jar away from his face as well as Sadri’s. He had informed the Dunmer that the poison he had made was essentially a horse tranquilizer that would ensure Dumhuvud was knocked out and wouldn’t have the stamina to move even long after he wakes up. Nothing but the worst for everyone’s most hated troll.
“This one suggests leaving no evidence.” Dar’Jzo reminded. “It may only piss it off.”
"Hurm," Sadri replied nonchalantly to Dar'Jzo's warning. "I really wanted to gut the fuck, but, oh well. I think I've got an idea... You want to get the drop on him, or should I?" He asked the Khajiit, rubbing the tip of his chin. A part of him was annoyed that they wouldn’t get to torment Dumhuvud relentlessly before they sent him off to his final voyage, but a clean getaway was more important to murder than how enjoyable it was. “One of us will have to be the bait, and I’m pretty sure he hates both of us equally.”
Dar’Jzo was in the middle of carefully folding the rag into a square to be placed in the center of his hand, which was slowly beginning to feel numb, when he looked back up at Sadri with his eyes narrowed. In most people it was a sign of distrust, and though Dar’Jzo had plenty of distrust to spare, it was mostly a sign of curiosity on his part as his mind fell back to the chaos of the Sload’s attack on the Tear. “Dar’Jzo has seen the Dunmer raving mad but a few moons ago,” he said, “and he knows even the subtlest signs better than anyone. Can he trust you to not smell the drug he has made? This one is uncertain.”
Sadri raised an eyebrow, his good eye gauging the Khajiit with contempt, not for the remark about his sugar tooth, but for just how dumb he must be expecting him to be. "If I were that eager to get myself killed I'd jump off the premises right now, friend. Now's not time to tarry. Just hand that damn thing over to me or take position, I don't think he'll wait," Sadri said, pointing down the stairs with his metal thumb.
In response, the Khajiit nodded in respect of Sadri’s candor, and for a moment he almost found himself reaching to hand him the drug until he realized that he was probably the one who was better suited to hiding. Dar’Jzo knew better than most how to be subtle and minimize his presence and, despite the appearance of frailty his partner in crime gave, observations during the battle showed Sadri to be more than physically capable of holding his own in fight; perhaps even better than himself. Well, at least on a bad day.
Dar’Jzo moved to reposition himself, his leg like springs as he went from crouching on one side of the lantern room to lurking in the shadows behind the mouth of the stairwell with silent, measured paces. Though his face was as still as a statue, the fur on his back and neck began to bristle.
It didn't take long for the Cat-Kicker to pick up the pace and finally make it to the top of the lighthouse. While Sadri'd thought of just kicking him down just as he reached the end of the staircase, it would've been harder to dispose of his corpse at the bottom of the lighthouse rather than the top, where it wasn't exactly hard for someone to just disappear into the rocky waves below. That, and he wasn't sure if the Khajiit would appreciate it as much as he did. So, he just flexed his muscles as the Nord bashed the door open. Sadri didn't expect that he'd be this afraid; perhaps it was because he hadn't drawn his sword. So he did the next best thing and opened his arms wide, as if expecting a hug.
"Ah, Dummy Wood! I've longed to see-"
He was quickly interrupted by a roar celebrating a weighty swing from Dumhuvud's axe. Sadri hopped back on his feet to dodge the blade’s edge, and found himself on the edge of the platform. He'd suddenly begun taking this much more seriously.
"Cat behind you! Cat behind you!"
Dumhuvud replied by raising his axe.
Dar’Jzo suddenly appeared behind Dumhuvud, grabbing the shaft just below the axe blade as the Nord reared back, pulling his arm behind his back and causing him to spin around to face Dar’Jzo, who was already ready to shove his stanky rag into his face. Amidst Dumhuvud’s muffled roars of surprise, Dar’Jzo, between grunts from trying to keep him under control, said gravelly, “It’s nothing personal, kit.”
The Cat-Kicker's muscles were not yet ready to go to sleep, it seemed, for he managed to grasp Dar'Jzo's neck with his free hand and begin choking the old Khajiit despite the paralytic rag pressed against his face. Nonetheless, Dar'Jzo could feel the iron grip falter and weaken moment by moment. As the Dunmer watched intently, hesitating to watch, the Cat-Kicker eventually collapsed beside Dar'Jzo, one hand releasing his axe and the other releasing the Khajiit's neck.
"That's it?" Sadri asked, now finding it safe to speak or move, with the hardest part of the deed over with. "You okay?"
Dar’Jzo was still buckled over, wheezing and gasping for air, knowing full well that he’d feel the bruising by tomorrow. When he finally had enough air in his lungs for him to talk, he looked back up at Sadri with his needle-like eyes and simply nodded. He looked down spitefully at the Cat-Kicker, remembering the treatment he received from him in Solitude and realizing that things would’ve ended very differently if any of the three of them missed their beats. This was it. There was only one thing left to do, and after that, it would be safe for him to look for Saddi.
“This one does not let his personal feelings interfere with what must be done.” Dar’Jzo said. “Some deeds must simply be done. But you? Dar’Jzo understands Sadri has no lost love for the Cat-Kicker. Would he like the honors?”
"Think it'd be more appropriate for a cat to kick the Cat-Kicker to his death, but I wouldn't mind giving an encouraging nudge myself," Sadri replied, dragging the unconscious Nord to the edge facing the sea below, and not the pavement the other way around. Before he let go of his haul, Sadri couldn't help but pat the Nord on the cheek lightly as a final insult. "Off you go, sweetheart," he muttered, standing up and pushing the Nord’s legs further towards the edge with the toe of his foot, as to keep them from interrupting with a freefall.
"Shall we?" He asked the Khajiit, extending an arm forward with his palm open as a welcoming gesture.
Dar’Jzo nodded and calmly approached the unconscious body of Dumhuvud. It was an odd sight to see Dumhuvud so peaceful in his final moments as he slept after he nearly tried to kill the two of them, but in his defense, they had premeditated his demise. He shared a few words, “May S’rendarr grant you mercy from Merrunz’s claws and teeth… but this one doubts a single divine breath will be wasted.”
With that, a sudden kick pushed Dumhuvud from the top of the lighthouse and sent him plummeting to the jagged ocean rocks far, far below.
Dumhuvud's fall from grace was so much less than Keegan had pictured. He couldn't see what happened on top, and a wind picked up so that he didn't hear the confrontation either. All he saw was a still figure descending to the sea, and a blink later, it was gone. The tides were growing, and before the end of day, it would wash away all that was Dumhuvud.
The winds died down when Dar'Jzo and Sadri walked out of the lighthouse. Everything was silent, saved from the distant lapping of waves and the occasional bird chirp, as if there was a silent vigil for Dumhuvud like that at the Conclave this morning.
“So it is done; the Cat-Kicker is no more.” Keegan approached his co-conspirators stiffly. He should be breathing a sigh of relief, but Keegan felt no relief at all. “We've rid the company of hatred, and I think we're all better for it. Aren't we?”
"Well, I know I'm not having any regrets," Sadri replied. "I'd buy the whole lot of you a drink for this, but I'd argue it's better if the three of us aren't seen together for a while. Think I'll go get a shave. I look like a damn mountain man," he added, scratching his scraggly mustache. "So yeah. See you folks around."
With that, the Dunmer walked away from the two. The two walked away from each other shortly after, and then, it was over.
Morning, Last Seed 10
Conclave of the Golden Tomb, Jehanna
“Arkay’s law, which we bestow upon the deceased, that their corporeal forms may not be raised to unlawful servitude.”
The priests had been droning on for gods know how long. Keegan was getting sick and tired of listening. Why did Gustav make them attend this boring and sad event? It’s not like Keegan, or any other mercenaries, actually give a damn about these four in coffins. Two of the four were closed caskets anyway, so bringing a whole bunch of people to reflect on how brutal Roze and Adaeze died seemed untasteful to Keegan. He found himself staring at the golden altars, true to the name of the conclave, and finding disgusted similarities to Tmeip’r’s golden airship. Looking behind the priests, Keegan saw the figure Arkay in stained glass, looking high and mighty, and too condescending for mortals to mere mortals to find comfort in.
What disturbed Keegan, other than guards busting their warehouse in the middle of night and flipping through everyone’s belongings, was Dumhuvud being their new commander. There was nearly no other that the Cat-Kicker picked on more often than Keegan, and in those instances Keegan did not wish to recall, Ashav’s presence had been the barrier between discipline and execution. It was now only a matter of time before Dumhuvud let himself go and Keegan would be the one in one of those coffins. There’s nothing more he hated than the image of people pressing a lettered tile to pay respect.
Well, there were other people the Cat-Kicker “accomodated”. The new (and old) Khajiit was one of them, in fact, Keegan saw the beating with his own eyes. There was also Sadri Beleth, being singled out multiple times for “disciplinary actions”. Keegan knew what people say in these situations; the enemy of my enemy is my friend. For what he had in mind, there’s no better friend than Dar’Jzo and Sadri.
Excusing himself quietly from the pews, Keegan walked through the nave to where Sadri and Dar’Jzo sat.
“Let’s talk outside for a minute,” Keegan whispered to them, “about our new commander.”
Dar’Jzo’s needle-like eyes fell on the altmer at the sound of his whisper. The old khajiit studied him for a moment, like it was a tense look of suspicion, but then he nodded and agreed, “Yes. Let’s…”
It would be fair to say that Dar’Jzo’s mind has not left the matter ever since he heard the news of Dumhuvud’s new promotion. When sight of Jehanna first came to view, all he could think about what his grandson -- this was it, this was the place where he was at. Where the Winterhold mages and students had fled to after the near destruction of the College. His long and arduous journey had at last come to an end, but when he heard the title of commander being attached before the Cat-Kicker’s name, he was all that mattered. With that awful Nord’s reputation, there was no imagining what he’d do now that he wielded more power. If he was allowed free reign throughout Jehanna, there was no imagining what would happen if he crossed paths with Saddi. Truth be told, Dar’Jzo’s imaginations have already been long at work about what to do with Dumhuvud before Keegan spoke to him. He nearly forgot on multiple occasions that he was attending a funeral.
As for Sadri, he’d put two and two together way before the funeral. He wasn’t sure as to why he’d picked the spot next to the new Khajiit – was he too afraid to look his comrades in the face, or was he latently yearning for more sugar? Better not be the case, he thought, after all that had transpired back in Solitude and aboard the Tear. He occasionally felt besieged by random things; tinnitus, the blood pumping in his veins, the temperature, but he knew he had to endure. Just as he had to endure all the loss around him. He felt guilty, too, about Solveig, about Roze, the ones whose absences he believed was his own doing. And now he had to endure other things. He had to endure his new commander, which seemed to be somewhat of a problem, given how Dumhuvud was not as willing to compromise as he was. But Sadri always prided himself on being somewhat of a problem solver, and it seemed to him that he wasn’t alone in wanting to fix this new problem.
When they walked out, Sadri shot a cursory glance at Dar’Jzo, and then looked back at Keegan for a sign of confirmation on whether the Khajiit was to be trusted or not. “I assume it is our mutual loss that has brought us here together,” he said, looking at neither of them in particular, his tone a mockery of a priest’s or a speaker’s. “Am I correct?” He asked, his suspicious glare peering straight into Dar’Jzo’s eyes. The Khajiit peered back.
“Dar’Jzo regrets not knowing the dead well enough to feel their loss.” He replied with his accented, gravelly voice. “They deserve more than this one’s apathy, yes? More than some of us.”
Sadri nodded upon hearing the Khajiit’s statement, taking it as a sign of being accomplices. His glare softened into a simple gaze of caution. “Yes, yes, I’m glad we are in agreement,” he replied, his tone still carrying on with the charade. “Those we mourn today were certainly better people than most of us. Ah, well, death is unjust, they say. Always picks the wrong people. Let’s hope the living don’t make that mistake,” he added, his gaze moving back onto Keegan.
“Very unfortunate losses indeed. I believe the martyrs would like the best of us to live a long life, and for the worst us, a swift justice.” Keegan crossed his arms, not giving the others a visible expression on his face. “Death is not solely in the hands of Arkay; we do have a say, no matter how quiet it is.”
Uncrossing his arms and glancing around, Keegan was certain that no one else was around to hear to them in this corner outside of the temple. Dumhuvud certainly wouldn’t; he didn’t even have the heart to attend the funeral.
“I find it so inauspicious that many had died to accidents. Our esteemed commander, Ashav, fell from a lighthouse.” Keegan tried to sound somber, but he was far more angry and impatient. He involuntarily fidgeted with his hands; Keegan shook his head. “What would happen if the same misfortune befalls upon the Cat-Kicker? I, for one, would not spend much time grieving.”
“With so many departing our company recently, would another death be suspicious? Or just routine?” Keegan shrugged. He felt uncomfortable about what to say next, so Keegan looked around. The area is still unoccupied beside them. Keegan swallowed a lump in throat.
“If the next death is any one of us, it would probably be because of Dumhuvud, and there’s nothing any one of us can do about.” Keegan sighed.
“But if Dumhuvud is the next to die, no one would be certain who the killer is.” Keegan cut straight to the chase. “We owe our fallen comrades a better leader, and we owe ourselves an end to abuse. All we need is to give the Cat-Kicker a little push; don’t you agree?”
“This one has already given it much thought.” Dar'Jzo admitted grimly with a slight bow of his head. “But not without help. Hmph, Dar'Jzo thinks he can adapt his strategy. It would take time, but that depends…”
“Well, Keegan said it first, not me, but I can’t help but agree with you two fellows on the matter,” Sadri chimed in after Dar’Jzo, his lower lip pouted. “We owe our living comrades a good leader as much as we owe our fallen, and as… stubborn as our beloved Dummy is, I’m not sure if he can hold up to late Ashav’s standards, Arkay bless his soul.”
He paused for a moment.
“…And considering that even his standards weren’t enough to keep him from losing his life in a tragedy, I’m not sure if our new leader has a chance. Plus, I don’t think he’s garnered enough love from anybody around him for them to search for him if he were to disappear.”
Sadri wouldn’t admit it, but it wouldn’t be the first time when he’d had a colleague of his disappear, either.
“Disappear?” Dar’Jzo repeated. The old khajiit leaned in. “Then the elves are not just interested in simple butchery? If they seek to prowl Sangiin’s hollow, Dar’Jzo can show the way… but know they must leave something valuable behind.”
Sadri’s face soured for a moment. “...Couldn’t we find a way without leaving valuables?” He asked, after a few seconds of silence. “Could just go for a quick dump in the sewers.”
The khajiit looked at him with a curious tilt of his head, but then gestured toward the lighthouse. “Think like the lighthouse. Embarking on a dark voyage, you must find your way back or become lost. We stay focused -- forget your emotions. What is your lighthouse?” A glimpse of Saddi flashed behind Dar’Jzo’s eyes. “Know why you kill before you do, and be sure it is of strong foundation. Poor ones become mudslides and are slippery.”
“Very well, gentlemen.” Keegan nodded in appreciation of the dark planning going on. “I believe the lighthouse is the most accident-prone location in this city, certainly where our new leader may repeat his predecessor’s mistake.”
“While people can disappear, we are in a foreign place where they can resurface without us knowing.” Keegan suggested. “It is better for us to act quickly, instead of worrying about the details and losing the opportunity in the end.”
“You can make poisons,” Keegan pointed towards the nodding Dar’Jzo, “and I can lure him to the lighthouse.” Then Keegan motioned to Sadri with his thumb. “You have an eye for accidents, correct?”
“...I don’t see why we don’t just gut him in an alleyway, honestly,” Sadri replied. “But I suppose I have an eye for accidents. I guess.”
Dar’Jzo added, “two deaths shortly after The Tear makes port ill for its repute. Should the sin of three make murderers of a whole crew? They should hide or mislead. Fewer guards on this one’s tail, the better, as Dar’Jzo sees it.”
“The more advantage we have, the less chance for him to struggle.” Keegan reminded Sadri. “We have to make this quick for the Cat-Kicker, because we can’t stoop to his level and make him suffer needlessly. And, you know, loud dying screams tend to attract unwanted attention.”
“Let’s not waste any time, gentlemen.” Keegan concluded. “I shall find a ‘private’ way to bring our friend to the party. While you, Sadri, clear the premise. And you, Dar’Jzo, prepare his ‘refreshments’.”
Afternoon
Jehanna Harbor
The warehouse was clear; no one’s there except for Keegan and Dumhuvud, and Dumhuvud didn’t know Keegan’s there. There was a desk in the office allotted to him by Gustav, and on the desk, a letter looking strangely out of place. Had it been Ashav instead, the letter would have been examined under further scrutiny. But this was the Cat-Kicker, and he hadn't the slightest patience.
You're weak. We took your puny ass shield. Come bow down to your Khajiit overlords at the lighthouse.
Dumhuvud screamed out in anger. He was about to tear up the paper when another line came into focus. How did he miss it? It couldn't have popped onto the paper.
Scared? Gonna tell mom and dad? You’re no man; you're an overgrown baby!
“I slaughtered an entire Stormcloak detachment to avenge my family!” Dumhuvud bellowed. His fist squeezed the paper tight until he was going to destroy it. Then he noticed words growing out of the backside. Dumhuvud was so mad that he didn't even notice it was not how ink worked.
Hiding behind everyone else again?
1v1 me.
Dumhuvud took his axe and slammed it straight into the desk, nearly splitting it in half and smirking when he heard the desk gasp. Then he stormed out of the warehouse, so full of anger that he didn't notice the doors opening themselves again after he had slammed them shut.
Ten minutes later...
Keegan never thought it could work in his wildest dreams. He almost chickened out before going through with his plan in the first place, and when he saw Dumhuvud all worked up, it took all he had to not run off in fear, and keep his excretions within his body. But it worked out splendidly. Someone believed that piece of paper he enchanted in five minutes, and the obstruction spell that hid Dumhuvud's shield shouldn't have been convincing with the way it flickered so often. Then again, the Cat-Kicker was too stupid to notice that the words weren't real; they're planted into his vision through enchantments and altered with Keegan's illusions. Finally, Dumhuvud missed Keegan hiding under the very desk (crouched tight, shaking and holding up an invisibility spell) he nearly chopped apart. It was pretty intense when the axe almost got Keegan's head. Thankfully, Gustav had a good desk, or it would have been awkward popping into plain view with a two-part skull.
As Dumhuvud stomped towards the lighthouse, Keegan tailed behind him, still invisible. Keegan made illusory crowds in Dumhuvud's vision so that he took paths not noticed by most people. Soon enough, they were in front of the lighthouse.
It was an unoccupied clearing. Keegan heard earlier that the lighthouse keeper had been arrested and fired for neglect; he had been absent for more than just last night. Someone from the city guards would be tending to the light after nightfall. But now, in bright daylight, they simply locked the lighthouse up and left it be.
“Come out and die!” Dumhuvud yelled, axe in hand and ready to chop.
Only silence replied. It would appear Keegan's co-conspirators had the wisdom to not engage this mad lad in open combat. Now, Keegan summoned a faint flicker on top of the lighthouse, and Dumhuvud turned his head upwards, sneered and approached the entrance. He saw the door was unlocked for some reason, as the lock was so flimsy that any lockpick, opening spell or a strong shove could've opened it. Thoughts of suspicion creeped into Dumhuvud, but he never expected to be climbing to his doom.
Outside, Keegan sat down on a log. The continous manipulation through illusion spells had exhausted him. He was in no shape to help Dar'Jzo and Sadri up there. Keegan only hoped they would be the ones walking back down, or it would be real awkward to explain everything to Dumhuvud.
From atop the lighthouse…
“The Cat-Kicker comes.” Dar’Jzo said to Sadri at this side. He grabbed the mason jar at his side and held his breath, reaching it to grab a soaking-wet rag and wringing out the excess. It was a poison that he made sure was as inconspicuous as possible if the guards had enough presence of mind to check with the local alchemists and read into their sales history. It was made mostly from your typical household ingredients -- chicken eggs, honeycomb, salt, wheat, bone meal, and small antlers, including some other things he could harvest on his own like spider eggs and skeever tails. Floating around inside the liquified and distilled mixture was a giant’s toe for good measure. He cautiously held the rag and the jar away from his face as well as Sadri’s. He had informed the Dunmer that the poison he had made was essentially a horse tranquilizer that would ensure Dumhuvud was knocked out and wouldn’t have the stamina to move even long after he wakes up. Nothing but the worst for everyone’s most hated troll.
“This one suggests leaving no evidence.” Dar’Jzo reminded. “It may only piss it off.”
"Hurm," Sadri replied nonchalantly to Dar'Jzo's warning. "I really wanted to gut the fuck, but, oh well. I think I've got an idea... You want to get the drop on him, or should I?" He asked the Khajiit, rubbing the tip of his chin. A part of him was annoyed that they wouldn’t get to torment Dumhuvud relentlessly before they sent him off to his final voyage, but a clean getaway was more important to murder than how enjoyable it was. “One of us will have to be the bait, and I’m pretty sure he hates both of us equally.”
Dar’Jzo was in the middle of carefully folding the rag into a square to be placed in the center of his hand, which was slowly beginning to feel numb, when he looked back up at Sadri with his eyes narrowed. In most people it was a sign of distrust, and though Dar’Jzo had plenty of distrust to spare, it was mostly a sign of curiosity on his part as his mind fell back to the chaos of the Sload’s attack on the Tear. “Dar’Jzo has seen the Dunmer raving mad but a few moons ago,” he said, “and he knows even the subtlest signs better than anyone. Can he trust you to not smell the drug he has made? This one is uncertain.”
Sadri raised an eyebrow, his good eye gauging the Khajiit with contempt, not for the remark about his sugar tooth, but for just how dumb he must be expecting him to be. "If I were that eager to get myself killed I'd jump off the premises right now, friend. Now's not time to tarry. Just hand that damn thing over to me or take position, I don't think he'll wait," Sadri said, pointing down the stairs with his metal thumb.
In response, the Khajiit nodded in respect of Sadri’s candor, and for a moment he almost found himself reaching to hand him the drug until he realized that he was probably the one who was better suited to hiding. Dar’Jzo knew better than most how to be subtle and minimize his presence and, despite the appearance of frailty his partner in crime gave, observations during the battle showed Sadri to be more than physically capable of holding his own in fight; perhaps even better than himself. Well, at least on a bad day.
Dar’Jzo moved to reposition himself, his leg like springs as he went from crouching on one side of the lantern room to lurking in the shadows behind the mouth of the stairwell with silent, measured paces. Though his face was as still as a statue, the fur on his back and neck began to bristle.
It didn't take long for the Cat-Kicker to pick up the pace and finally make it to the top of the lighthouse. While Sadri'd thought of just kicking him down just as he reached the end of the staircase, it would've been harder to dispose of his corpse at the bottom of the lighthouse rather than the top, where it wasn't exactly hard for someone to just disappear into the rocky waves below. That, and he wasn't sure if the Khajiit would appreciate it as much as he did. So, he just flexed his muscles as the Nord bashed the door open. Sadri didn't expect that he'd be this afraid; perhaps it was because he hadn't drawn his sword. So he did the next best thing and opened his arms wide, as if expecting a hug.
"Ah, Dummy Wood! I've longed to see-"
He was quickly interrupted by a roar celebrating a weighty swing from Dumhuvud's axe. Sadri hopped back on his feet to dodge the blade’s edge, and found himself on the edge of the platform. He'd suddenly begun taking this much more seriously.
"Cat behind you! Cat behind you!"
Dumhuvud replied by raising his axe.
Dar’Jzo suddenly appeared behind Dumhuvud, grabbing the shaft just below the axe blade as the Nord reared back, pulling his arm behind his back and causing him to spin around to face Dar’Jzo, who was already ready to shove his stanky rag into his face. Amidst Dumhuvud’s muffled roars of surprise, Dar’Jzo, between grunts from trying to keep him under control, said gravelly, “It’s nothing personal, kit.”
The Cat-Kicker's muscles were not yet ready to go to sleep, it seemed, for he managed to grasp Dar'Jzo's neck with his free hand and begin choking the old Khajiit despite the paralytic rag pressed against his face. Nonetheless, Dar'Jzo could feel the iron grip falter and weaken moment by moment. As the Dunmer watched intently, hesitating to watch, the Cat-Kicker eventually collapsed beside Dar'Jzo, one hand releasing his axe and the other releasing the Khajiit's neck.
"That's it?" Sadri asked, now finding it safe to speak or move, with the hardest part of the deed over with. "You okay?"
Dar’Jzo was still buckled over, wheezing and gasping for air, knowing full well that he’d feel the bruising by tomorrow. When he finally had enough air in his lungs for him to talk, he looked back up at Sadri with his needle-like eyes and simply nodded. He looked down spitefully at the Cat-Kicker, remembering the treatment he received from him in Solitude and realizing that things would’ve ended very differently if any of the three of them missed their beats. This was it. There was only one thing left to do, and after that, it would be safe for him to look for Saddi.
“This one does not let his personal feelings interfere with what must be done.” Dar’Jzo said. “Some deeds must simply be done. But you? Dar’Jzo understands Sadri has no lost love for the Cat-Kicker. Would he like the honors?”
"Think it'd be more appropriate for a cat to kick the Cat-Kicker to his death, but I wouldn't mind giving an encouraging nudge myself," Sadri replied, dragging the unconscious Nord to the edge facing the sea below, and not the pavement the other way around. Before he let go of his haul, Sadri couldn't help but pat the Nord on the cheek lightly as a final insult. "Off you go, sweetheart," he muttered, standing up and pushing the Nord’s legs further towards the edge with the toe of his foot, as to keep them from interrupting with a freefall.
"Shall we?" He asked the Khajiit, extending an arm forward with his palm open as a welcoming gesture.
Dar’Jzo nodded and calmly approached the unconscious body of Dumhuvud. It was an odd sight to see Dumhuvud so peaceful in his final moments as he slept after he nearly tried to kill the two of them, but in his defense, they had premeditated his demise. He shared a few words, “May S’rendarr grant you mercy from Merrunz’s claws and teeth… but this one doubts a single divine breath will be wasted.”
With that, a sudden kick pushed Dumhuvud from the top of the lighthouse and sent him plummeting to the jagged ocean rocks far, far below.
Dumhuvud's fall from grace was so much less than Keegan had pictured. He couldn't see what happened on top, and a wind picked up so that he didn't hear the confrontation either. All he saw was a still figure descending to the sea, and a blink later, it was gone. The tides were growing, and before the end of day, it would wash away all that was Dumhuvud.
The winds died down when Dar'Jzo and Sadri walked out of the lighthouse. Everything was silent, saved from the distant lapping of waves and the occasional bird chirp, as if there was a silent vigil for Dumhuvud like that at the Conclave this morning.
“So it is done; the Cat-Kicker is no more.” Keegan approached his co-conspirators stiffly. He should be breathing a sigh of relief, but Keegan felt no relief at all. “We've rid the company of hatred, and I think we're all better for it. Aren't we?”
"Well, I know I'm not having any regrets," Sadri replied. "I'd buy the whole lot of you a drink for this, but I'd argue it's better if the three of us aren't seen together for a while. Think I'll go get a shave. I look like a damn mountain man," he added, scratching his scraggly mustache. "So yeah. See you folks around."
With that, the Dunmer walked away from the two. The two walked away from each other shortly after, and then, it was over.
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The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)
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6 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
"I TOLD YOU, I FORESAW THIS! BUT NO ONE EVER LISTENS TO THE FUCKING MAD BOMBER"
Try being less suicidal next time, homeboy
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