Peik

☀ THE DEVOURER CYCLE — Act I ☀

_{A collab between me and @Sadko}

---

"Fear the man you have woken up from an afternoon nap, fools."

A strange head is carried by the shoulders of Lubbo - ever so stalwart and at the same time stagnant in his designs. The man stretches on his bed, akin to a cat. A messenger comes with troublesome news, and at such an inopportune time. There's a glint of irritation... somewhere in the air. An error of the monarch to expect those second to his command to take the matter into their own hands. Must be important. He guessed, his movements surprisingly brusque and swift as he rose from his sleepy position and began to dress.

He was out from his tent in no time, his demeanor instantly capturing the attention of several of his retinue members on watch duty. The focused, yet groggy man turned to bark a command, but was pleasantly surprised to see them already mounting their horses. Hrorek, the golden son, led Lubbo's favorite stallion toward him, the beast adorned and yet armored by the work of a great southern smith: outlandish, you could say freakish horns, protruding from the iron helm. An obvious reference to the standard of the Carogacts, a white ox on a blue field. The old king was not keen on his offspring's ideas, though he didn't deny that the common folk would eat it up like a pig does its' shitmeal. It was a crude instrument, but a tool nevertheless.

He gripped the reins, shifting in his saddle as the horse cantered toward the commotion. In these brief moments, his mind pestered him with thoughts and doubts. New plans for the day, depending on which way the wind blew. Omens be damned.

He bore this thoughtful face the moment the would-be instigators of this whole affair appeared in his line of sight. His physiognomy swiftly turned into a grimace. His gaze withered the meek glances of his roguish subordinates, but the king once again took on the thoughtful, even puzzled look when he saw a clothed white ape in the scene.

The ape was not as puzzled in appearance as it were pugnacious, however; standing between the two parties like a cornered predator, his monstrous, catlike gaze wandered from one group to another, almost as if it had not made its mind on which to strike first. Blood dripped lightly from one of his hands, and on a closer look, it became obvious that the blood wasn’t his. His nostrils were heaving visibly. He did not look like he would be calming down anytime soon.

With Lubbo's appearance, Anabinpāl raised his arms up in half frustration and half elation, and began thanking about how the Carogacts finally had someone in charge on the premises. Having smashed one of the Carogacts' face in with a punch, and having burst one of his own men's lips open with a ferocious slap, Anabinpāl now walked back and forth like a beastly interloper, madly dancing on the grassy clearing, empty save for two discarded swords and an exasperated goat. The Carogacts did not dare approach, while the Mikanna themselves were too busy wiping the blood off their fellow warrior's mouth and suffering their chief's chastising gaze silently, like children aware of their guilt.

"Is this how you Carogacts hail a fellow tribe?” Anabinpāl asked. “Unsheathing your swords and ganging up at every sign of commotion? Your chief must be proud of you.”

Of course, Anabinpāl had no idea that the man he was addressing was no other than the aforementioned chief.

By now, Lubbo already realized that he was facing the chief of the Mikanna. A man he had certainly heard of before the day they met, and so he took on an oddly fond appearance as he watched Anabinpāl pace about anxiously. The scene that the Carogact king observed, however, was not merry. A dreadful looking goat and several men of the two tribes wounded, one of them terribly so. The poor fellow Anabinpāl punched was feverishly collecting his strewn teeth off the ground. Considering the Mikanna chief’s last remarks, Lubbo cast a sidelong gaze at the man. He pondered on his reply.

“You are right; I am not proud of the spoiled apples in my bunch.” The king spoke softly. “The few.” He added, giving his soldiers a stern glance.

He did not descend from his saddle yet, instead gently reining it forward and in such a fashion that his men were squarely behind him. They were fools, but they were his fools, nevertheless. “Who spoke the first insult, and who drew their weapon first?” His intonation almost as if it was an open-ended question. The soldiers looked onward at the footman with the burst lip and the one left with two teeth.

He slowly climbed down from his saddle, taking a few steps toward Lord Anabinpāl. His frame, though not weak by any measure, was dwarfed by this freak of nature. Lubbo looked cool. “Our men almost died because of one goat.”

“Happens more often than one’d admit. Cattle are scheming beasts. They confuse us on which of us get to butcher them, and make us butcher each other instead,” Anabinpāl replied, half sarcastically.

Lubbo gave a sardonic smile. “You and your tribesmen are welcome in our long hall tonight. We’ll have wine and mutton.”

Anabinpāl’s expression turned cloudy upon the offer. He looked away, seemingly lost in thought. Before speaking, however, he faced the man once more. “Do not let it be thought that we Mikanna are ungrateful for the Carogacts’ hospitality, Chief Lubbo,” he said, before another pause, seemingly trying to pick the best words from his repertoire, “but we know that the other tribes have made… assumptions about us. I would like it if we did not feed these assumptions further, so… It’s my opinion that it’s best if we honor your offer, perhaps after the conferring.”

He paused again and turned to the wounded men before continuing.

“It would have been better if we hadn’t met over such an incident, but… such is fate. We did not come with a baggage train; the goat must have been yours. But one bad turn only leads to another. I had to stop these fools before their cockiness caused further incident. Still, we have the culprit; best make an example of that goat before others can follow in its wake.”

Lubbo’s shrewd eye twinkled as he listened. Clasping his hands together with a hum, the Carogact glanced over at the goat. “Aye, it would be a bad omen unless we give this creature up to the gods. Only they can have it.” He understood the chief of the Mikanna to be an able man, and someone to have an eye out for in the times to come.

“I wish you well, then. See you at the conferring.” He said dryly, turning about and saddling his horse before trotting back to camp. The king was brooding over what transpired. He hoped his words had smoothed the rough initial contact, though he didn’t pride himself on being an apt diplomat. The interaction between the two tribes has left a bittersweet taste on his tongue. He reached for his waterskin, gulping as if to wash down this state of mind. Somehow, this mental trick worked. Lubbo’s mind was preoccupied with the breach of discipline by some of his men. The thoughts of more similar incidents occurring later on also visited him. He kicked the stirrups, speeding up to a full gallop as he made way back to camp, dead set on fixing the errors of his host’s arrival.

☀ THE DEVOURER CYCLE — Act I ☀

The Mikanna were late.

They had made a quiet arrival - so quiet, in fact, that few would have even noted their presence as another tribe's procession, had it not been for the helmets they wore and the three men on horseback leading the eight on foot. From afar, two of the three riders looked an awful lot like giants riding men's horses, with their voluminous clothes and tall-domed helmets. To some onlookers, the sight was perhaps terrifying, but to others, perhaps it was simply absurd. Yet, even from the distance, one could say that the one in their midst did indeed come from giants' stock, and it was no other than their Chief, Anabinpāl, who, ironically, looked the humblest of them all. With how his hands held tight onto the reins of his mount, how his shoulders hunched, and how his face seemed lost in thought, he looked more like a runaway beast, captured and brought to parade by the two riders beside him.

Although the expression on his face was a thoughtful one, inside, he was more annoyed than contemplative. The wooden domes attached to their helmets had taken far longer to craft than he'd hoped, and on top of it all, the design had turned out more like the top fin of a sheatfish than the envisioned look of a blade edge. He'd done away with his entirely, seeing no reason to wear a disappointment that delayed their arrival and made him look even stranger. At the very least, he hoped that the folding cuirass he'd worn underneath his cape, partly to tuck his belly in, and partly to show off the craftsmanship skills of the Sidda, would make an interesting proposition to the more martial minded chiefs. He hadn't come here expecting to be made leader of all clans.

In truth, he was not here with any high hopes whatsoever. Even after so many years, Anabinpāl felt unwelcome in his place of power, and even though it would be an affront to his reputation to say it out loud, would much rather stay out of the spotlight. Better an outsider unseen than one in the flesh, he thought to himself, but here he was, and there was nothing he could do to change that now. His foot hurt and his belly ached from the tight fitting armor - he would rather be at home with Elenig, eating boar, while that fool of an eldest son by his side, Iannan, could have made himself useful for once and represented the tribe and family properly.

"We are close, father. The village is in sight."

Anabinpāl responded with a slight nod. He remembered how happy they had been after this one's birth. His wife had been overjoyed - he himself had simply been relieved. And now, almost twenty-five winters after his birth, Iannan felt more like a burden to his father than he had ever been. He was a fair and kind-hearted lad, who'd taken after his mother in terms of demeanor, but Anabinpāl knew well that being a good lad was not enough to spare him, or his siblings, from the horrors of the deluge to come after his passing. And with every passing day, that knowledge weighed more and more on the Chief's shoulders.

Anabinpāl turned to his left, and addressed the other rider. Meseric was his name; he was a childhood friend of Iannan's, one who'd accompanied him as a youth, and now still accompanied him, while Iannan himself now accompanied his father. Their bond was good enough, and for all his grim demeanor, Meseric was a lad wise enough to realize, and put to practice, the ways of authority. He would be a good adviser to Iannan in times to come, even if not the most liked.

"I shall go up alone. Set up camp close to the other tribes, but not too close," Anabinpāl informed him, before nudging the horse's belly with his heels to make it canter forth.

☀ THE DEVOURER CYCLE — Act I ☀

Say hello to the newest contender, everyone!

☀ THE DEVOURER CYCLE — Act I ☀

Anabinpāl

Siddayumi Anabinpāl, Head of Sidda, Chief of Mikanna

Certain things in life are chosen for people far before they get to have a say in it; some find themselves lucky and are born into comfort, while most are merely scattered all over the average. Then there’s the truly godsforsaken sort. Current head of the House of Sidda, Siddayumi Anabinpāl, seems to be part of the lattermost group. The story does not begin with Anabinpāl, but with the founder of the House of Sidda, Ban-Giru-Ganesh. The family’s telling is that it all began when ‘Ur-Ednirun fell to Nhirian blade, and Sidda Ban-Giru-Ganesh first received Favor from the Gods’. Favor allowed Ban-Giru-Ganesh to bring prosperity with his touch, and justice with his insight. Thus, he was set on the way of power, and the House of Sidda was set on earning great fame. A valued ally to Hezeret, and a man who knew how to expand his influence, Ban-Giru-Ganesh expanded the wealth of Sidda to great extents; such that the family Elders claim that their slaves in Urrûm-erzu numbered more than its freemen and peasantry by the time of Ban-Giru-Ganesh’s death, and that their gardens in Limtuk numbered so many that the city had turned a vibrant green. Of course, such power is bound to beget envy, and envious were the curl-bearded nobles of Nhir. Whispers spread falsehood, say the Elders of Sidda, and in darkness, shrines to the city-demons were teeming with forbidden offerings, so that they would place curses on the line of Ban-Giru-Ganesh. And they grew so numerous that, in the end, even on the Favored line of Sidda was cast a shadow. Their bloodline, once a matter of pride for the Sidda in bearing no outsider family’s taint, began producing unsightly offspring. The blossoming flowers of their gardens withered, and their fields fell victim to a plague of locust. With the tide having turned against their foe, the perfumed nobles and the fickle priests began speaking, and rumors abound; of how the house of Sidda had turned to the Old Ways, of how they planned to usurp the throne and cast away the glorious name of Ārtammat. And thus, there was war. Elders say how even with cursed blood flowing through their veins, the men of Sidda took up the razor and the cuirass with honor. Although each of them was strong as ten of the Ardent Host in combat, the armies of Nhir soon realized how Sidda would not be bested by blade, and began wielding more insidious weapons; bribes, poison, hunger. Strong as they were, not even the blood of Sidda could stave away starvation, and soon they fell, one by one. When the men fell, the Nhir came, and took what they could not by men’s means. The women were defiled and sold to slavery, and the children were bashed against riverbed rocks until the waters ran red. Obviously, despite the massacre implied in the narrative, some survived. The Elders say that they went north and north, until the hands of Nhir could reach them no more. By the time they reached the mountains of Thraxia, the soles of their feet were scarred by the march, and their tongues by cruel thirst. Nonetheless, they were Sidda. When the red-haired Angaturiz approached them, with sword in hand and curse in mouth, they proved they would not be rid of easily, and persevered against them and the elements of the wild until they were seen as, maybe not equals, but a fellow inhabitant of the mountains. Or so the tales say, and the tales end here. Few are old enough to remember what truly happened, and the said few amongst the Elders of the Sidda know well that their power comes from their tales, and would not give away their power so easily. However, one can speculate. While the family tales speak of warfare and glory, few of their artifacts and ventures imply such a predisposition. It seems more likely that the Sidda earned their place in the Thraxian mountains through trade and craftsmanship, considering how the family’s fame in the region comes from their skillfully made tongs and scissors, and their prominence as dyers. By the time Anabinpāl was born, while the house of Sidda had not yet risen to the prominence that they would reach during his life, their monopoly on how to produce sky-blue dyes allowed them to hold a certain degree of affluence and wealth. He was born to the head of the family, Siddayumi Nantunipāl; who was famous amongst the Sidda for his reputed skill in combat (so skilled was he that none amongst the living had seen him unsheathe his sword, let alone use it), and amongst the Angaturiz for his dwarfish stature. The birth is said to have been a commotion in itself – as the story goes, upon seeing the child come out of the womb six fingered, red faced and as hairy as an ape, the midwife came down with illness and could not speak for the rest of her years. Despite Anabinpāl’s horrifying appearance, it was not received with surprise by the line of Sidda, having been long accustomed to their ‘cursed blood’. Albeit his mother, Selig, a Vedatanni woman from the tribe of Mikanna married to Nantunipāl in exchange for teaching the tribe how to produce the coarser blue dyes, took some time to adjust to her wild child, and through his early childhood Anabinpāl was raised by Iniminnu, his aunt and Nantunipāl’s first wife. Despite the rough start, over time, the bond between Selig and Anabinpāl grew stronger than the boy’s bond with Iniminnu, to an extent that Selig would defiantly bring the child with him whenever she were to visit her family, and encourage him to play with the boys of the Mikanna as if he were one of them proper. For the Sidda, the child spending time with the Mikanna was a good thing; although his polydactyly was considered a boon for a craftsman, his late birth, mixed blood and pugnacious behavior made him an unpopular candidate at inheriting anything of importance from his father’s wealth. Amongst the Mikanna he was at first a subject of curiosity and humiliation for his beastly appearance, but as he quickly grew to a prodigious size, respect took the place of mockery. Thanks to his gangly, muscular arms, he proved an expert climber and spear thrower at a very young age, and eventually made a name for himself amongst the tribe’s hunters, both for his skill and for his voracious appetite. His growing reputation amongst the Mikanna made the Sidda quickly see the boy in a new light; as opposed to the best-forgotten brute they’d first seen in him, he was now groomed as a warrior, a profession that had mostly been on its way out amongst family members until then. Unexpectedly, it was Siddayumi Nantunipāl who declared that he would be training Anabinpāl in the ways of combat. While the women of the Sidda began preparing dirges for him in advance, and his wives began practicing how to present themselves as proper widows, it turned out that the Elders’ tales about Nantunipal’s skill in the ways of the warrior were true. The elderly dwarf made such a mockery of Anabinpāl, in fact, that it is said to this day that the Sidda do not show their warrior side for it is beaten into their very muscles with cudgels. It took two years for Anabinpāl to land even the weakest hit on his father, although said hit was enough to shatter four fingers on the man’s left hand, which would lead to their amputation some years later. So, the House of Sidda earned its next warrior. And when the Mikanna raised their arms against the neighboring tribe of Awaddil, when the latter claimed ownership over their cattle, the Sidda went to war alongside them. Father and son fought side by side, and fought well. Anabinpāl brought so many heads and prisoners to the Chief of the Mikanna, Briseric, that the man was oath bound to give to the young Sidda whatever he’d wished. Anabinpāl proved once more why he was known for his voracious appetite, and asked for Elenig, his daughter and only child, to be his wife. While it was unthinkable for the elderly Briseric to give his only daughter to a foreigner (especially a foreigner like Anabinpāl, for it was practically giving his daughter to an ape that spoke), it was also unthinkable for him to go back on his word, and begrudgingly, they were wed. It was a silent marriage. Anabinpāl was now on the dangerous path of greatness. Having built a strong bond between him and his father on the field of battle, and having wed his way to being a future contender as chief (even though he’d married Elenig for she had the thickest thighs and tallest height amongst the women of the tribe, and not for her status), he was now a most prominent figure amongst both the Sidda and the Mikanna, yet also one full of controversy. Like an interloper, he had come and taken Nantunipal’s favor and fingers, despite having no skill in the family professions – not only that, but he’d also taken Briseric’s daughter from him and tainted his line. For all his fame, many showed him respect, but few showed him love. He had no proper friends or allies in either family, merely those that feared him. Only his father, mother and wife showed any sort of compassion to him. For one leading a simple life, that might have been enough. But despite his monstrous exterior, he was able to feel the hatred of many within himself like any other man. Anabinpāl found himself feeling surprisingly alone. When Siddayumi Nantunipāl passed away suddenly, without naming an heir to the House of Sidda, Anabinpāl ended up being granted his position, for despite being the least popular candidate, he was also the most feared. Nonetheless, this fear was not enough to stop one of his uncles from insulting him openly amongst members of the House, mocking him, his life, his appearance and the circumstances of his birth, claiming that it’d have been better if he’d never been born and how he was Cursed Blood of Sidda personified. Anabinpāl was so insulted, that he began weeping loudly, and bashed his uncle’s head in with his fists until there was naught but his lower jaw left attached to the man’s body. He then fell sick with headache and spent up to a week in seclusion, attended only by his wife Elenig. The weeping and random garbling that could be heard from his quarters led the family to think that the Gods of Nhir had caught up with them and were tormenting the Sidda once more. He eventually recovered and found that the gory display he’d made of his uncle had silenced all the sounds of dissent within the family. Perhaps it was not only dissent that he had shut down, for in general, the House of Sidda felt joyless. The head of family was a brute with no understanding of leadership, one that was not above shedding the blood of his elders upon compulsion. Wishing things differently, he went to his mother, Selig, and asked for her counsel. She was a woman wise beyond her years and told him that families stood together through two things – the power of love and the feeling of security. Anabinpāl did not believe that he could win his family’s love, for in the end, he was not where they wanted him to be. So, he tried to buy their hearts through offerings of the family income. His uncle’s widow was given one-in-forty of the Siddayumi’s wealth, while members of the House were allowed to keep to themselves twice what they would normally keep. He was warned by his wife, Elenig, on how this could lead to them merely speaking their thoughts away from his presence and plot against him from such safety, but perhaps even this was enough for Anabinpāl. Unexpectedly, despite the resentment that the Elders of Sidda held against him, his decrees allowed his distant cousins to grow wealthier, and over time, he found some allies amongst them. Unlike his siblings and his uncles, they had no chance of inheriting the position of Siddayumi, and thanks to him, they now had a greater degree of independence and wealth. Anabinpāl’s status amongst the Mikanna also meant that they were able to move through the Angaturiz with less harassment and more respect as well. While Anabinpāl understood that his cousins’ allegiance to him would lead to an increase in his responsibilities, he did not want to disappoint those who appreciated his actions. At their behest, he began taking a more vocal role in the tribe politics of the Mikanna, something that his mother and pregnant wife also appreciated. All this meant more stress on the Siddayumi, however, and the headaches came again, with greater intensity. With them, he also found his words slurring and outright changing at times, barely able to keep himself from spouting random profanity and losing physical control. When the two came together, he would lock himself to his quarters, alone, and unable to do any further harm to the family. The Elders of Sidda were not surprised – the Cursed Blood, they said once more. An act of Gods at behest of the Nhir. They were, however, surprised when Anabinpāl dared to curse said Gods out loud and removed all idols and offerings to them from his household. He would not obey those who had spited them and forgotten them in their time of need, he claimed. Sidda had shown its power even without favor. The only God from Nhir worthy of worship was Ban-Giru-Ganesh. Surprisingly, this decree of Anabinpāl found supporters amongst the Elders, the ones who still remembered some of the Old Ways. While most of them were not pleased with this development, those ones had realized by now that Anabinpāl did not seem to care about their heeds, and thus accepted the new narrative out of necessity and began making the best of it. Remains of the Old Ways and borrowed practices from the Angaturiz filled in the gaps left by the removal of the Gods of Nhir, and the True Way of Sidda was (re)found – much of it without Anabinpāl’s knowing. He claimed he had better things to do than to meddle with the way of priests and Elders. As the Sidda reformed itself around the new dogma, Elenig gave birth. The child, named Ban-Giru Iannan (Glory to Ban-Giru), was the first Sidda born in a long time without any seeming defects. Anabinpāl was happy to see his wife Elenig relieved to see a healthy child, while the Elders saw this as an auspicious sign of Ban-Giru-Ganesh rewarding them for them rising up against the destiny written for them by the Gods of Nhir. However, when the Mikanna and the Sidda gathered together to celebrate the birth of Anabinpāl’s child, he was beset by the Cursed Blood once more, and in an episode, insulted a prominent retainer of Chief Briseric. While most were amused by Anabinpāl’s words, the man was not, and challenged Anabinpāl to a duel. With his reputation at stake, Anabinpāl accepted. Three days later, the duel commenced. While Anabinpāl tried to go easy on him, he was stabbed in the foot by his efforts, and promptly ripped the man’s face off. Anabinpāl’s wound had to be cauterized, while Briseric's retainer spent a week in agonizing pain before finally expiring. Albeit his injury was expected to humble him, Anabinpāl turned even more aggressive after the incident. Fearing for his and his family’s future after the event of hostility, he decided to take matters into his own hands and consolidate a future for the Sidda before he expired or lost his sanity. When Briseric finally passed away, he was quick to claim himself chieftain of the Mikanna, and declare that any who disagreed with the notion were free to leave the tribe with all their belongings, or challenge him for the title. While none dared challenge him, some prominent retainers of Briseric indeed left for other tribes. Most of the dissatisfied seemed to find the thought of having to start a new life far too difficult and begrudgingly accepted Anabinpāl’s rule. Yet it seems for Anabinpāl that the more he’s risen, the more he’s lost. He knows well that he is not the popular ruler, despite his attempts to appeal to the love of his people. Even his advisors and his allies seem to have preferred an alternative. While he has secured a possible fortune for his family, he is aware of the risks awaiting them should he stumble, and the constant need to be cautious eats away at him and makes him more fallible to the so-called Cursed Blood. He has compromised some of the trade secrets of the Sidda to appeal to the Mikanna, and compromised the cultural integrity of the Mikanna ruling class to appeal to the Sidda. In return, he’s gained allies and enemies in both. He trods the path of greatness with a limp, and is all too aware that wolves are guiding him there, wolves ready to lunge at his throat should he fall. And so, he loses himself in food and drink to forget the sword hanging above his head by a thread. For all the comforts allowed to a chief, he finds it harder and harder to enjoy any of them with what’s at stake.	One look at this famed warrior of old, and one can see that the tales are, or at least, some were, true. While no longer the red-furred beast that he was rumored to be by the tribes of the region, this pudgy, apelike brute of a man certainly bears enough hair on his body to be mistaken as such. His hairs have greyed, and his brow has furrowed, and despite the air of majesty brought to him by his age and regal clothes, the savagery that constitutes his physical being still shows its prominence through his snout-like nose, sunken, predatory eyes, and the simply monstrous amount of mass on his body. One of his eyes has long gone lazy, and he often makes an effort to not let his eyes wander. Age: 53 Skills & Talents: A prodigious warrior even at his advanced age, what he lacks in education of strategy, he makes up for through personal experience and a sharp mind. Despite his tendency to downplay his physical strength, he is still a brute more ape than man, more than capable to lead and humble the best of men in combat. Anabinpāl lacks in mercantile and diplomatic etiquette, but is willing to learn and is not above asking for advice from those close to him, well aware of his limits. He speaks with candor and clarity. While illiterate, he has spent a good portion of his youth listening and observing. It is hard for him to explain his reasoning through words, but it has served him well so far. His sheer mass hinders his ability to wear the heavy armor of his bloodline, although it also hinders poison should it enter his bloodstream. Traits: Cautious; Observant; Patient; Hedonistic; Unstable; Paranoid Allegiances: His children; his wife, Elenig; the Sidda family; the Mikanna tribe Rank & Role: CHIEF.

☀ THE DEVOURER CYCLE — Act I ☀

Expect a CHOONKY character application here soon-ish.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

Evening, Last Seed 16
Evermore Castle

---

The sight was equally familiar and alien to Marcel.

He could feel the years-old alienation creep up through his muscles the moment he passed through the doors into the Royal Garden. The maddeningly expensive clothing, the contempt and corruption hidden beneath the layers of dress and makeup, the false smiles, empty conversations... He'd been here before. He'd never really enjoyed it. And now here he was, forced to endure it all over again. With his few friends, at least he could find a couple of chuckles in the gigantic game of pretense; now here he was, alone, with his closest companions no closer than mere acquaintances. It was a special kind of Hell.

He wasn't sure as to what exactly what he was supposed to be doing here; not in terms of objectives, but more so in ways to achieve said objectives. He'd never been the most sociable one, especially in high exposure missions such as these. Having had his fair share of embarrassments and faux pas in such higher circles, he knew he was way out of his league in these environments. He wasn't a bad talker; it was just the constant feeling of distance between all the posh folks and himself. He'd much rather discuss Imga subspecies with his chemist friends, in a comfortable inn by the Imperial City's Market District. Gods knew, even hunting for proof of the mythical mold-troll in the dankest caves of the Colovian Range could be a better pastime.

But a duty is a duty, he assured himself, and Marcel had always been proud of his determination to achieve his objective. Even amongst his bizarre and constantly changing group of comrades, he was fairly sure that there was nobody else as proficient in the art of the Hunt as him. At least, nobody still alive. “We truly are an inauspicious bunch,” he thought to himself. Or was it fair to say “We”? Marcel had never been part of them, he figured. He’d shared moments and memories, but he’d never shared the general flow. Then again, had he ever shared that with anyone? Theodora, maybe? Master Diarmid? He’d never know. If only he were around to ask…

The melancholy train of thought would’ve indubitably driven Marcel to further sorrow, had he not accidentally bumped into another guest in his absent-mindedness and spilled the guest’s drink all over the both of them.

“Oh, you little shit, have you any idea how much that costs-Marcel?”

“Master Diarmid?”

So shocked were their voices, one could assume that they’d been on the business end of a Storm Atronach. Of course, thankfully, no such thing had happened. For a while, at the very least.

“Did it take you this long to find me? You could’ve just asked around the Eater’s Lodge! I kid, I kid, of course. My boy! How have you been?” the old Breton was peppering Marcel with words faster than he could respond. By the time he could stammer out a response, Marcel found himself in a hug almost strong enough to burst his throat back open. It wasn’t until the onset of his coughing that Marcel was let free of the man’s grasp.

“Ah ha, you’ve always been a lightweight, my boy. But fret not! This old man’s here to solve all your problems. You caught the cold?”

“Actually, sir,” Marcel weakly replied, “I caught a halberd blade with my neck.” He pointed at the thick serving of bandages underneath his gorget.

“My, your humor has improved… I see that the same cannot be said about your fencing skills, however.” The old man’s tone quickly hardened as he leaned in with a serious gaze. “Halberds? Are you mad, my boy? Is it that lass from Skingrad? Did you finally earn her ire?”

“It’s a long story, as you can ascertain, dear sir. It’s been far too long…”

“Yes indeed. Now you’re going to tell me how my last pupil nearly got himself beheaded, and more importantly, what in the name of the Seventeen Hells are you doing here? Don’t think I don’t remember you drinking laxatives to avoid court invitations!”

“It’s uh… Vampires, sir. We’re hunting Vampires.”

Diarmid lost track of his boisterous behavior for a moment, dumbstruck like a lamb face to face with a tiger. Regaining his composure almost instantly, he realized the implications of his pupil’s words and began eyeing the surroundings with catlike perception.

“You’re suggesting Vampires are amongst us? Here? Ugh… No surprise. There’s always a couple of these nobles who aren’t actually Bumfuck the Third but actually Bumfuck the First. You know the latest decree, our regulations say-”

“They plot against the conference of nobles here, sir! We must-“

Marcel’s warning was interrupted quickly by a crashing sound and a sudden chilling flow. The duo turned to face a fair scattering of red-tinted ice on the ground. Realizing the implications as his mentor stepped forward, Marcel shivered momentarily as the former remains of Mora-knows-who cracked beneath the man’s boots. It didn’t take too long for the old Breton to come to his senses either. “That bitch! Hold her! Hold her!” Diarmid began screaming as he pointed at Sylette, but they were too late. Already by mid-sentence, multiple vampires had burst into the hall and begun painting it crimson.

“It’s not her! It’s him!” Marcel yelled as he began rushing after another figure, to him, an Altmer – to others, who knows. At least one nobleman who was adept enough to hear Marcel attempted to stop the mer from moving by slamming into him; for his efforts he was rewarded by a sudden swipe into his stomach, which spilled his intestines out like a bundle of squirming snakes. Diarmid tried to follow his pupil, but was attacked by a frenzied, fat Nord woman wielding a cleaver. Dodging one strike and catching another with his forearm, he found the shallow cut annoying enough for him to drop all pretense of civilized demeanor and slap the woman away with the back of his hand, caving her cheekbone in and tearing off her lower jaw from one side of her face.

“Hold on, lad! I’m rusty!” Diarmid yelled out as Marcel rushed after the Altmer and disappeared into the hallway. Mere steps before the door, he swiftly bumped into a tall Dunmer dressed like a gaudy caricature of a nobleman. They seemed both equally perplexed and fatigued. “Out of my way, you corpse-faced mongrel!” The old Breton yelled out as he kicked the ash-skinned fellow away and rushed into the hallway, only to find his pupil on the ground next to an unconscious guard, whose dress sword had seemingly slashed Marcel’s face in two. His left eye had popped out of its spot, and skin on the left side of his face hung down his skull. As he heaved, skin near the wound fluttered like cloth in windy weather, along with his left eye’s lids.

“My boy! My boy!”

“I’ll… I’ll be fine, sir,” a bloodied Marcel replied as he attempted to stuff his eye back in its spot. “Just the meat.”

“You damned fool… Hold on, at least let me piece it back together,” the old Breton said in half chastisement, as he held Marcel down by one shoulder and held another hand firm against his face. Arcane skills did not falter with age like physical skills did, and the old man had always capitalized on substituting for his weakening musculature with Restoration; even when dealing with someone as magically resistant as Marcel, he was able to at least place his eye back in its socket properly, and mend the skin just enough for it to stop flapping around with further movement. While he wasn’t sure if he could fix the nerve damage on his own, this would have to do for now.

“Right… You should rest a while, get your-” Diarmid said as he tried to pull his old pupil to a safer position, but was interrupted by yet someone else bumping into him. This time, an Argonian, almost dronelike in his uneven pace. While the old hunter propped his arm back just in case this stray was also frenzied, it seemed that he was fixed on something else, and passed by them quickly.

“Damned vampires all over, mass frenzy… I didn’t retire for this, Marcel, you know?” The old man confided in a moment of respite.

“You know?”

“…We can’t stop now. Too much is at stake,” Marcel muttered sheepishly as he propped himself up and grabbed the sword which had chopped his head in twain. Diarmid would’ve stopped him but found himself far too exasperated by his pupil’s monotone resolve in his own moment of weakness. Not willing to be one-upped by his subordinate, he lifted himself up from his rest and followed his pupil’s stead. By the time he caught up with Marcel in the Duchess’ Quarters, the Argonian that had passed by them just recently remained only as a severed arm and a head, the Altmer they were chasing was nowhere to be found, and his own pupil was slammed into a wall as a bleeding mess bearing a plethora of claw wounds.

“You damned scum!”

While entering the premise with an axe kick strong enough to crack the floor was impressive for a man of his age, the fact that it was dodged made it somewhat unnecessary. Dodging the counterattack made by the wounded beast, he deftly threw himself towards the midst of the room, now facing the Vampire Lord properly.

“Oh, my boy… Why?”

The old Breton seemed more tiresome and bothered than sad on first glance, as if he were annoyed that things had come to this point, yet a glint of wetness in his eyes as he averted his gaze from the half-dead witch hunter down betrayed otherwise. Master Goupeville composed himself, trying to stay concentrated on the bloodied monster standing before him, and shake off the thought that he wouldn’t amount to much without weapon, magick, and most important of all, blessed youth. Perhaps the outcome did not matter. His latest pupil was dying before his very eyes, before him was a dreaded Vampire, which, had he been in his glory days, would have been somewhat of a disappointment for a cause of death, but now seemed to him a fairly respectable way to go.

Diarmid Gilfryd-Goupeville, a Hunter of High Rock, now faced the infamous Vampire Lord Nyrehtaud, unarmed, and at seventy years of age. Lesser men would just have not bothered and died on the spot. But lesser men would’ve never earned the title of Old Hunter. Diarmid knew he’d die and come back before giving up on that title, and so he would.

Rushing forward, Diarmid landed a commendable punch on Nyrehtaud’s face, though obviously, a commendable punch was not enough to exactly faze a Vampire Lord of this station. The beastly Vampire smashed his forearm into the old Breton’s chest, sending him flying upwards and smashing him against one of the chandeliers hanging down from the ceiling. Candles fell and its chains clanked, but it stood firm, and the Old Hunter fell down on the ground… on his hands and feet. Pushing himself up, Diarmid began coughing out blood, although the cough quickly turned into a cackle. As an annoyed Nyrehtaud rushed forward, he threw himself to the side, raising his leg just enough for the tip of his boot to smash into the Vampire’s mouth. From the sound, he was sure he’d broken one of the Vampire’s teeth, although he was also certain that some of his own ribs were suffering from the same fate. The fight was over, no doubt.

“I expected better! Are you a recent convert?” the old man asked, his taunt weakened by the barely concealed pain in his voice.

The Vampire Lord, despite the significant wounding he had received from the recently deceased Argonian, lifted the old Breton up from his collar with zero effort, and held him up to see the insolent fool’s face. Yet, despite a triumphant and regal demeanor, the single glinting fang in his mouth signified to that the hunter’s kick had indeed found its mark. For all his intents and purposes, Diarmid was doing better than he’d expected.

“I am Nyrehtaud! And you now peri-“

POCK

The beast let out a window-shattering screech that nearly burst Diarmid’s eardrums, but the old man was content in the fact that he had managed to give the beast the finger one last time – quite literally, considering how the Vampire Lord’s right eye was now stuck to his left index finger. He burst out more bloody cackling as the beast first dropped him in painful trashing. A moment later, he nearly burst into a bloody pulp when the pained beast’s fist came down on his head and nearly shattered his skull open, then tore into his chest with vicious abandon, puncturing one of his lungs, and threw him away dismissively across the library like a bloodied rag.

Flying across the library, Diarmid only came to a halt when he smashed into a bookshelf. The impact was strong enough to crack the sturdy oak frame, but the shelf managed to soak the hit better than the old man did; he fell as a mangled, bleeding slump right in front of it. One book on the shelf, crimson even without the Breton’s blood splattered on it, fell down to his side a moment later.

Immortal Blood.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

Two things for you guys to do:

1. Restore order to the dining hall; eliminate Sylette, her vamps and frenzied guests. Risk: you may fall for the frenzy spell.
2. Go after Nyrehtaud and protect the monarchs; you'll need to defeat him and two gargoyles. Risk: you may have to fight through/convince confused guards along the way.

Also, Tsleeixth's sacrifice gives the rest of us the upper hand against Nyrehtaud. Please press F to pay respect to our lizard bro (and his homeboy Tmeip'r).

@Gcold

Sadri will go for Sylette, whereas Marcel and SPECIAL GUEST APPEARANCE BY BIOGRAPHY NPC will go for Nyrehtaud.

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

I see this is back! I'll be keeping an eye on it. Hope you don't get too wild with my precious jewel of the Middle East.

Cold Front: Antarctica (Completed)

Shit, I'm too late. Well, next time, I hope. I want to give this a go.

Cold Front: Antarctica (Completed)

I've begun work on a sheet!