RolePlayerGuilt

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

Yes. But will Valen fit into this one, is the question

@Hellis

What Dervs said. We can help you adapt your character into the story if you're interested.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

Sun's Height 19

---

Farid was angry.

To be precise, he was a mess. Standing disheveled early morning in a shabby, cold tent, he hurled objects angrily at invisible demons. It wasn't the dumb prank two rouges of the company pulled last night, as much as he loved mead, lusted after Roze's body and hated Sagax's face, he really couldn't care less about any of them. He thought about finding that Imperial kid and clubbing his ugly teeth in, but decided the consequences weren't worth it. No, how he wish it would simply be him and giving back on his headache and theft. Instead, the news had to ruin his day, and with what he had in mind, probably the rest of his life.

But it would be worth it, Farid thought. In times like these before, he would be confused, alone in making the biggest decisions in his life. That wasn't the case now. Mehm found him, counseled him and acted as the father figure he never had. He dug out the letters from his bag, beside a drawing of his siblings he paid too much for, and re-read their familiar contents. He was a Redguard, descendant of the proud Ra Gada that carved a trail of blood through arrogant elves and primitive Orcs. Yes, the Orcs were, and still are, nothing more than mindless, murderous brutes. Mehm couldn't have said it better. Ever since they first met in the staging area at Rorikstead, Farid received a total of three letters; one before the Windhelm siege, one before Winterhold and one yesterday, when he came back. He remembered the bold and forward-thinking mercenary, remembered his Vanguards (and the tale of their rivalry against Ashav) and most of all, the tactics and mentality that gave him a confident triumph when others quivered in front of snow demons.

Most importantly, he remembered Dragon Gate. He was the eldest of five children, born of an heiress who all but squandered away her wealth. He was practically the guardian of his brothers and sisters; Haraas, Turpen and Abujah. His birth father never existed, and his "step-fathers" were gold diggers only caring for his mother's wealth. Farid vowed to return one day, a glorious warrior rescuing his closest from that wretched little town. That day would never come.

"Are you alright?" Came the meager question of Dough-Boy.

Farid snorted, how could he be? "Eat shit." He spat at the kid. Useless fool, running errands for the even more useless and foolish Madura. Farid strapped the armiger dagger and the snake-charmer's flute to his belt. How ironic, he thought as he stumbled away, his deed would be done with his dead enemies' weapons. Perhaps he would have another by the time...

"No!" Farid smashed his fist into a wooden wall. He wanted nothing to do with the monster's vile tools.

---

Orakh just woke and had his morning piss. There was a copy of the Tamrielic Gazette by his doorsteep when he came back. He shut off the door of his Windpeak Inn room door and sat down to read it. As always, the reporters had the typical doom and gloom stories. He was old and really no stranger to how shit this world could be. Then his eyes popped wide open when it came to the Dragontail Mountains. "Lurbuk!" The old man exclaimed. Setting his mug down, he choked on the tea, suddenly aware how his throat burned.

Then the door flew wide open; someone just kicked it off half its hinges. "What?!" Orakh barely had time to shout. He stood up in shock, realizing this wasn't Thoring going mother hen about check out time.

"Orakh!" Farid snarled from the doorway. "You are the mentor of a butcher!" The Redguard jabbed his finger forcibly at the article.

"I'm your huckleberry." The Orc responded. His wrinkled eyes seemed to fight a war of their own against Farid.

"They're all dead because of you! Every single innocent, all my family!" Farid broke down and howled like a mad beast. "You made a killer, you are a killer! You would fucking leave me to drown and teach mindless savages to cut down the helpless!" Farid continued cry, but no one seemed to hear him, everyone else was probably sleeping off hangovers in this wee hour. "I know what you are, what you Orcs all are! Mehm told me. By Morwha, by Onsi, by Tava, by damned Talos, I'll avenge them!"

"Ain't got no time for your news story." Orakh remained stoic. He made not a sliver of movement. "And I sure as Oblivion don't get what you want." He added with an apathetic shrug.

"Your last words."

Now it became crystal clear what Farid would do. Orakh knew it a moment too late. Should he been more alert, he would have retrieved his axe from the container and forced his way out. But Farid already pulled out his weapons, but Orakh could still get out. He said nothing and launched himself foward without warning. He hoped to knock Farid down with an elbow.

It didn't work. Farid caught the elbow with his off hand and twisted it perpendicular to where Orakh charged. Aged tendons immediately snapped as pain stopped the Orc's momentum dead in its tracks. Farid then dived back, shoulder ramming into chest as he tackled Orakh into a chair, breaking it. Farid delivered knuckles, elbows, knees and headbutts amid wood splinters. When he made sure Orakh couldn't fight back, he pulled the bloodied Orc to his knees and crossed the flute and dagger in front of his throat.

"Make it quick." Orakh sneered, coughing up splutters of blood and teeth.

"You don't deserve it." Farid retorted. He raised his dagger up, but switched it with the flute instead. It would be fitting for Orakh to meet his end not on a weapon, but an instrument instead. Farid huffed at the thought of killing, no, he wasn't killing, he was doing justice. This was no man, what he faced was a monster like the Kamals. He would finish it with something that made music; perhaps this very deed would be enshrined in a song.

Farid stabbed the sharp end of the flute deep into neck tissues, past the jugular and straight into the windpipe. Orakh gurgled, but Farid dragged the flute in grinding pace from right to left. Halfway through, the flute refused to go, so the Redguard threw it out. He stepped back to witness his handiwork; a pool of blood and an old man clenching his throat hopelessly, body twiching in its last sign of life. Farid felt dread, like a mixture of fire and ice occupying his mind. He killed more than most ever would, but this felt wrong, it felt like he killed a part of himself. Farid shook his head from side to side, in a daze, he could swear he saw Orakh's eyeballs gazing past his soul, into the Ashpits of Oblivion. Hardening his resolve as best as he could, Farid finished the cut with his dagger.

Farid collapsed beside Orakh's limp body. He felt blank, as if the elements finally eroded his entire mind. Blood and tear mixed in his hands and the green Orc head rocked on a half-severed neck. He should feel like a hero, but as he pondered the first kill of his own volition, one that came personal rather than money, he felt like an animal. What did he do? Mindless and empty, Farid wanted to die.

The words that came sounded like a thousand mile away. Dough-Boy was dragging a weary Ashav and his lieutenants to Orakh's room. None of them were prepared see what rounded the doorway. Farid leaped to his feet, dagger pointed defensively outwards and his feet carried him back against the wall. He heard Dough-Boy recounting what he spied on, and they wanted to get inside.

"Back off!" Farid screamed. Patrons of the inn started to wake now; they gathered to watch the spectacle.

Edith was the first one to step beyond the threshold. She triggered Farid to point his dagger at her. She stepped again, this time, Farid sagged. The dagger blade was spun around and pointed to its owner's heart. Edith reacted quicker in end, faster than Farid could stab himself, the Nord woman had dashed in and disarmed him. Daelin followed right behind, tripping Farid to the ground and tying up his hands with ropes.

"Get out here, nothing to see!" Ashav cordoned off the room and shoved back a small crowd of onlookers. He even made sure Thoring didn't intrude. When only members of his company were left, Ashav let out a heavy sigh. "What are we going to do?"

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

Featuring @Dervish

Earlier that night...

---

The festival was decent for a change. Keegan liked the whole aspect of people not killing each other and semi-palatable food being readily available; the event scored a five out of seven in his books. Fine afternoon teas felt like a life time away, which had only been thirty years (could have been an actual non-elven life time). Recent hardships tossed all hopes of regular luxuries right into Oblivion. Keegan might as well be reliving his prisoner days, fighting for every scrap of food and bedding.

After personally collecting payment from the jarl's steward (as he didn't trust Dumhuvud with his money), Keegan bought what seemed to be salted whale blubber and walked as he ate. There were talk of Argonians forcibly evicted from town premises. In times like this, Keegan shuddered just walking past a back alley.

"Ooo, shiny..." Keegan gasped at a golden glow in the said back alley. All fears of danger vanished, only to be replaced by curiosity and a little hint of greed. He thought it could be a glittering jewelry.

"This one got you now!" Came the maniacal laughter of a Khajiit bruiser. Decked out in metal armor and brass knuckles, the oversized cat nearly rivaled the Altmer's own height. This man wasn't Do'Karth or Rhasha; last Keegan checked, they had better senses of humor.

"This got to be the most creative debt collection ever." Keegan sighed. Yep, it's about time his debt comes knocking.

"You know the drill; money or your life." The Khajiit demanded. Two more punching bags emerged on cue, both without tail.

"Right right," Keegan said casually, "how did you do that glow anyway?" Sizing up the bad guys, Keegan could no longer find traces of what initially ensorcelled him.

"A magicka mirage magnifier." The cat patted his chest proudly. "This one is very smart, yes?"

"Sure, very smart." Keegan waved. His wave contained magic. Suddenly, the non-Khajiit enforcers fell under an illusion. "Hey, your crotches are burning!" Keegan shouted as he released mind tricks from his hands. Immediately, the Khajiit's minions dashed away in terror, screaming about non-existent fires and patting each others crotches in the process.

"Well played," the cat mock clapped, "too bad though, because this one got magic warding." He pinned a surprised Keegan by the shoulders against a wall, restricting the mage's hands, and his casting abilities by extension. "Any last words before Muh'ali caves your skull in?" The Khajiit hissed. His features were angry, ugly and scarred like a typical villain. However, Keegan could not make out much of it in the dimming lights.

"Uh, help!" Keegan decided to make his last words, well, hopefully not last words. With the festivities dying down, he banked on someone capable hearing his cry for help.

As if the gods had heard the altmer's pleas, or a passerby in a busy festival happened to be going by the alley in the diminutive village at that moment, Muh'ali suddenly barked a surprised and pained yelp and backed off of Keegan as his arm was pulled behind his back and twisted against the pressure points. Do'Karth, having just left the inn after meeting with Tsleeixth and the newcomer Dax, heard a commotion and came investigating. he was surprised to see one of the only altmer he'd seen in the company being accosted by another khajiit, and it simply would not do; he'd worked hard at giving his people a better image in people's eyes by trying to be something other than a thieving or murdering brute, and here was a large and ugly Cathay harassing someone he served with. Do'Karth wasted no time in descending upon the assailant and taking matters into his own hands.

"This one thinks you have the wrong mer, yes? Move along, enjoy the festival." He said calmly, as if explaining to a drunken friend that he was being an idiot.

"Quite the contrary." Muh'ali shook his twisted arm in pain. "You've picked a bad time to meddle; Muh'ali the champ will flatten both you and the elf shit."Seemingly unfazed by Do'Karth disabling one of his arms, Muh'ali swung the other in intricate flourishes. "This one was champion of both the butterfly flow and the bee sting."

It was a clumsy attack, given that his free arm had a limited range of motion to reach the khajiit behind him. Do'Karth ducked under or weaved aside the jabs and elbows and landed a savage kick to the rear of Muh'ali's leg, buckling it. The Cathay was larger and stronger than he was, but he certainly knew where it hurt to get hit. Do'Karth put more force into torquing the captive arm. His voice grew into a much more threatening tone, "Move along, or you will not have the choice."

Muh'ali's last ditch was a savage headbutt to Do'karth's face. Given how the larger Khajiit was wearing a steel helmet, this hit sent Do'karth reeling with a headache to remember. However, Keegan was longer helpless at that time. The Altmer had recovered from being pinned and managed to unbuckle his staff from its bindings. He swung the dwarven metal straight into Muh'ali's midsection, jotting the Cathay back and then applied a generous dose of electricity. These combined attacks put the big cat down on his back, who scrambled away with a series of rolls and crawls; figuring he clearly got more than what he asked for.

"This one and his allies shall return." Muh'ali spat once he put a safe distance between himself and the mercs. "Your debt will catch up to you sooner or later, Keegan Vasque." With that, the champ turned tail and hobbled away.

"Hey, thanks for the help." Keegan managed to mutter after the incident. He nodded to his savior and then glanced around cautiously, seeing nothing beyond Do'Karth, started to walk back out. Just then, he found a slip of paper laying where Muh'ali fell in the brawl. It was a bounty from Daggerfall city authority, who promised 1200 gold coins for his live capture or 600 for his dead body. Near the bottom of the ledger were tacked on handwriting, ones that were strikingly similar to Horace Fontaine, his former patron. The handwriting cautioned whoever went after Keegan to be aware of shallow physical resistance and abstruse arcane abilities. Keegan snorted at shallow physical resistance, something he begrudging admitted as true.

"Great." Keegan threw his hands up and shook his head at Do'karth. "Would you believe it, they hiked my price up again." In midst of a war against otherworldly foes, a bounty upgraded to dead or alive is the last distraction Keegan hoped for.

Do'Karth removed his fingers from his skull, which stung to the point it felt as if it were on fire. The strike had momentarily blackened his vision and the smell of copper filled his snout as the strike cut a small gash into his forehead and his sinus felt like a small amount of blood pooled back there. His fingers came before his eyes, a damp redness discolouring his already rusty-coloured coat.

"This one thinks you need new friends, and perhaps that he should have not had a few drinks in him before coming to your rescue. Who was that?" the khajiit asked, looking around for a rag to hold against his forehead.

"A debt collector. They're typically human but I guess the reward attracts everyone now." Keegan answered. He didn't like sharing these kind of details with people, but there was also no point hiding it when it became plain. "I was scapegoated in horrible accident. The most elites of Daggerfall were my patrons, fairweather friends, now blame me for burning down a theater; something I did not do." He showed the Muh'ali's paper to Do'Karth, who either didn't bother to read or couldn't read at all. No matter the case, Keegan explained further. "Daggerfall Theatre belonged to Horace Fontaine, an influential minor noble who happened to be Ariane's uncle. I suspect Ariane is here to spy on me. This has been what, the fifth time they tracked me down. Similar thugs assaulted me in Windhelm; nose breaking seems to be their preferred approach. How come another country and a mercenary company can't even stop them? I'll never get away from..." It felt good to finally find someone to vent his frustrations, his stress and his worries. Keegan talked on for a few minutes, arms flailing emotionally.

The Altmer went silent when he noticed blood trickling out of the Khajiit's nostril. "Pardon me, I didn't mean to..." Keegan cleared his throat while passing the armiger scarf to Do'Karth. The Altmer had little first aid experience, but he had seen Karth fixing wounds of both self and others. "Are you alright? I believe there is an apothecary nearby." Keegan cautiously placed a hand on his comrade's shoulder, something he picked up from other mercenaries. It seemed like Do'Karth's eyes struggled to focus on what's ahead.

Do'Karth blinked at the reaffirming touch, it was an unexpected gesture from a mer he had not become acquainted with before, as if Keegan were roping him as a potential ally in his own personal struggles with the bounty hunters. He took the scarf appreciatively. "Do not concern yourself with Do'Karth, he's suffered worse. All blood is is a reminder to do better next time." he said, smiling. He was surprised that Keegan opened up so honestly about his troubles; the khajiit was wondering if perhaps he had an air to him that made him seem trustworthy to total strangers. He found a close friend, a paramour, and now... whatever Keegan would turn out to be. It was rare to meet altmer outside of the Dominion, and those that were were more often than not affiliated with the Thalmor. "To be fair, it is hard for a company to stop something they do not even know is a threat. This one feels he should take offense, for he bleed to stop your rather sizable adversary from collecting you." he teased. "But fear not, you are in Do'Karth's company. He will stand by you when they come back."

He stopped in his tracks, placing a hand against the building they were walking alongside, the timber from bracing him as he held the scarf against the gash. The burning headache and mild intoxication, and whatever other damage the strike had done, had made him somewhat dizzy. It would pass, but the many factors were not encouraging. "Many pardons, Do'Karth's head rushed so suddenly. A moment, if you would."

Keegan felt awkward for a moment, he had not intended to disclose so much about his past. He started to frown when Do'Karth teased but got around the lighthearted tone a moment later. "I...thank you." Keegan scrambled something that sounded grateful. He never got the hang of thanking people. "You help a lot of people, and I shudder to think what would happen if you haven't came along."

Seeing the Khajiit stopping to brace himself against a building, Keegan stopped with him and stood close. "Not at all." He assured Do'Karth. "What can I do to help?"

"If one can be of use, why shouldn't he be?" The khajiit replied rhetorically, blinking stars out of his eyes. He was regaining his sense of balance, but the hit had been rather jarring. "There is nothing this one requires, he simply was looking out for a companion in a tight situation. He would think you would do the same, yes? It is simply enough to enjoy the festivals. Do'Karth has not seen anything such as this before." he admitted, looking around at the crowds and the hanging coloured lamps. "Things are somewhat different back home. Where are you from, Daggerfall?"

The words of his Khajiit comrade brought back memories when Keegan watched his mentor die. Honestly speaking? He's a coward, plain and simple. But he had since then vowed to not let those he depended on down. "Yes, you are right. We in the company watch out for each other." He was hesitant to say it, because Keegan could not picture himself in harm's way helping others, like Do'Karth demonstrated more times than he could count. "I'll lend you my spells whenever you need." He rubbed his shoulders and brushed the textures of his stowed staff. "But I think I am going to need to improve with polearms, the physical skills, if we keep taking such contracts." Keegan hinted for Do'Karth training him, but didn't want to ask directly.

"Uh, yes." Keegan answered , not sure what else to say. "I've lived in other places before, Fir-" He halted himself mid sentence. Do'Karth didn't need to know that much, not now, at least. "Wayrest before that, before it was a pirate nest." Shifting his head uncomfortably, Keegan took in the last strands of sunshine and decided to change topic. "It's tough fighting on foreign soil." He remarked. Involuntarily, goosebumps grew on exposed skin as temperature dipped. "Do you ever get homesick? For Elsweyr, or where ever it is. I heard the moons are sacred to your people, did the bloodmoon nights scare you?" The words slipped out of Keegan's mouth like rapid fire spells. He forced his curiosity down, lest he became as nosy as Madura. "At least the festival is, well, nice. Though I wouldn't try the whale blubber if I were you."

The look in Keegan's eyes when he mentioned needing to improve with his physical staff prowess made it fairly evident that Keegan was asking Do'Karth for help; he was literally the only one in the company who fought with a quarterstaff, and the technique for spear combat was different enough that the skills weren't directly transferable in a lot of ways. The khajiit let the unspoken request hang for the time being, instead nodding at the prompted inquiry of if he missed home.

"This one does think of Anequina from time to time, it has been years, and this one does not consider it home any longer. A wise man once said not to waste your time looking back, it is not the way you are going." Do'Karth replied, heading back into stride with Keegan, feeling sure enough on his feet to walk in a straight line after having a few moments to recover from the blow. "Jode and Jone, or as you might prefer, Masser and Secunda, are what determine what breed a khajiit becomes by the moon phases. The bloodmoon does not bother Do'Karth, although khajiit communities might take it as a bad omen, mainly since the phases directly effect our births. This one's been walking the sands of Tamriel for over two decades, he needs not worry what he will become." he chuckled. "Do'Karth intends to try a bit of everything. One cannot decide if they like something unless they try it, no?"

"Interesting." Keegan nodded. "Altmeri teachings, um, propaganda, say the moons can be bent to power magic. I wonder if the invaders was the cause behind this." Noticing Karth regaining coordination, Keegan resumed his normal pace. He wandered through a few streets without direction, then decided to head back to the inn and snag a room before none are left.

"I don't know how you could live on the road for so long, as myself never got accustomed to long travels." He said. "I especially don't like ships," reminiscing to the journey just earlier this week, "they are shaky, rough, irritating and the salty stink gets everywhere." Keegan found himself rambling on again, he's going to relearn his small talks if he were to be called an adept of speech.

"When you've been away from home for so long," Keegan slowed down again so that he wouldn't reach Windpeak before he finishes, "you start to forget all its problems and develop an ideal nostalgia for it."

The Altmer suddenly began to wonder about the Khajiit's age. Non-elven people aged like dogs (or cats and lizards), or that's what his tutor told him. "You have been traveling for two decades," Keegan decided to ask indirectly, "did it start on your own or with a family." Keegan then remembered something relevant from the newspaper. "Have you heard what's going on in Elsweyr? The Mane had been assassinated and there's a civil war right now; north fighting south."

"You misunderstand; Do'Karth has only been alive for around two decades. It has only been a few years since he started to wander..." the second part of Keegan's statement took Do'Karth aback; he'd heard rumours, but nothing reliable. In the end, it didn't matter if he succeeded or not in the assassination of the Mane; it would seem that the gods wanted him dead rather badly. It left a sinking feeling in Do'Karth's gut, like his failure and subsequent path of redemption were meaningless if the result was ultimately the same. The civil war, however, was entirely new to him. He'd heard of fighting, but nothing of the sort being described. He stopped in his tracks, suddenly feeling very tense. "This one just thought they were words in the wind, nothing of substance... he had not heard of the war between Anequina and Pelletine, and he did not believe the assassination... there are no words, but this one is thankful he has no family to fear for. Just the soul of khajiit." he lamented softly.

Keegan got more questions listening to Do'Karth, but he decide to let them rest for now. "I don't know how true they are, but that's what the newspaper Madura brought in said. I believe it's called the Tamrielic Gazette. Have you read one?"

Now nearing the inn, Keegan checked his purse to make sure nothing was stolen. "The pay wasn't too bad this time, eh?" He changed topic briefly, wondering if the Cat-Kicker distributed the money to everyone. "Do you have a room?" He asked politely. It would be rude to hog the only room when there's someone else needing it. Keegan guessed they could draw straws, if it came to that.

"But I believe the Gazette's due for another issue tomorrow." Keegan said, trying to recall the schedule, if there's still a schedule in a war like this. "They say there's a power struggle on Summerset Isles, and more than the typical politicking in High Rock." Walking onto the inn porch, Keegan felt a little sorry for the refugee tents in the distance. "But there's no use worrying, is there?" He dismissed the concerns. "You should ask Madera for a copy tomorrow, he always receives them first, and then Dunmer's tolerable if you don't let him lead you into questions." He smiled faintly.

Ugh. Memories of the pushy dunmer came flooding back, a mer seemingly oblivious to the horrors around him in the city that pried Do'Karth and Niernen for information. For remembering another lost friend, a feeling of resentment crept up the khajiit's spine like a spider ready to bury its fangs in his neck. "Do'Karth is thankful he cannot read, for he has had the misfortune of meeting this Madura. He cared little for him. This one does not concern himself with problems of a world away, for there is more than enough excitement here." Do'Karth said, standing down a few steps from Keegan. He caught the altmer's gaze towards the assortment of tents. "This one is looked after, your concern is appreciated. Pardon this one's statement," he said, returning to study the altmer's face. "You seem to have a number of questions on your mind, wherever your mind wanders prompts a new thought. Is something troubling you, aside from debt collectors?"

Hearing Do'Karth as illiterate was bit of a shocker for Keegan. The Khajiit never acted dumb, and he assumed there's no way someone as well-traveled as he could get by not reading the signs. Perhaps what they said about "inferior races can't read" on Alinor retained some degree of truth. The Altmer stroked his chin, if it was him three decades ago, he would have mocked the catman. But now, he feels more sympathy than superiority. "You cannot read?" Keegan surprised. "Do you wish to learn? There's a set of chil- uh, beginner books in the tavern. I could get you started on them." He suggested, puzzling for a second on how kids' stuff got into a bar. "There's a few things." Keegan quietly nodded. There has been and always will be. He opened himself today more than he did in the last year. His comrade was trustworthy, but he'll need to ease his concerns out one-by-one, not spewing everything out to bare. "None of them are pressing matters right now." He leaned against the wooden railings, making a calm impression about himself. "I think the best thing for me, after the beating at sea, would be a warm sheet of blanket and a chilling mead." The Altmer chuckled at his unintended rhyme.

Do'Karth rewarded Keegan with a genuine smile. "Perhaps it is time this one settled down enough and figured out what all the fuss with words was about. Do'Karth thanks you, and will find time to read your kitten-level literature. The pictures may prove of use." he chuckled, tilting his head as Keegan looked like he wanted to continue his train of thought, be decided against it, before concluding that he had enough excitement for one day. "Then this one supposes we part ways this evening. There are still many things to taste, and after being trapped on a death trap of a ship, Do'Karth decided he would like to remain out of doors for a while where the sea cannot swallow him." he concluded, only half joking. Offering a parting wave, Do'Karth left Keegan to his devices before swiping the sweet roll from behind someone's back. Few things were quite so delicious as surprise delicacies.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

@Dervish

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

Inviting some people.

@Culluket and @Hellis, Dervish said you guys would be interested in TES RPs.

@Greenie, saw you lurking about. Wanna join us?

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

The next issue of the Tamrielic Gazette will arrive on the 19th. "Madura" also gets a shiny new arm.

Headlines

News

Tamriel: Bloodmoon ended on the 17th. Speculations are that Alinor manipulated lunar patterns to intimadate Khajiits out of their alliance with Cyrodiil. Semi-humorous "moon lottery" draws the ire of Khajiits.

Elsweyr: Senchal, the last stronghold of pro-independence Pelletine, was overran following a two-week siege. The Anequina general leading the assault was Ri’Nhazi-Do. Casualties were staggering for both sides. Citizens in Senchal continued to resist even after the mayor surrendered; hundreds were massacred as retaliation. Many interviewed likened Senchal to a slaughterhouse.

Dozens have been abducted from Elsweyr coasts as strange ships are sighted from the far south.

Skyrim: Rumors surrounding the High King’s death were confirmed by a guard last week. The guard, fearing for exposure, refused to share any details regarding the Dragonborn’s sudden demise. Whiterun jarl Balgruuf called for a moot, but Stormcloak hardliners, led by General Manis, disregarded this. The moot is nearing completion, consisting of Balgruuf, Elisif and Sorli. Dengeir of Stuhn attended only as an observer, as his government in Falkreath was overthrown by Rebels led by Svari Ice-Heart. Meanwhile, Manis declared himself generalissimo of the Nordic Army, took over the Reach (with troops previously assigned against Forsworns) and abducted Rift jarl Laila Law-Giver to pressure other jarls. Maven Black-Briar capitalized on Laila's abduction and led a coup with the help of the Thieves Guild and Penitus Oculatus agents, succeeding in crowning herself jarl.

Dawnstar jarl Skald remains behind to monitor the Kamal battlefront, he is tentatively cooperating with the White River Braves. The Orc stronghold of Narzulbur in Eastmarch was wiped out by snow demons, causing other strongholds to declare war against the Kamal. A second wave of refugees have fled occupied Windhelm. These people were part of a failed citizen uprising when pit fighter Tennant Ibnazh challenged a Kamal officer to unarmed combat, almost won and beaten to death by lesser Kamals (a Dunmer werewolf called Relmyna also gave her life in the process). The uprising was eventually put down, and those failing to escape were killed and dumped into sea. Two days later, five hundred Dunmer armigers entered Eastmarch and allied with the Kamals. The armiger commander was installed as the military governor of occupied territories. There is no declaration of war or comments of any kind from the Nerevarine.

Both Manis and Balgruuf urged for the utmost effort in repelling the invaders. However, they have only sent token forces to Eastmarch as loyalist guards and hardline Stormcloaks took up positions against each other. The northern half of Eastmarch is currently occupied, with Mixwater Mill, Fort Kastav, Steamcrag Camp and Nightgate Inn as frontline. 2000 Kamals and 500 Dunmers form an invasion force of 2500. The resistance led by the Braves numbers around 1500.

Cyrodiil offered aid but no words on whether that is accepted or not.

Morrowind: The Nerevarine' sole appearance was declaring martial law on Vvardenfell. Foreigners are barred from the island. He said all Dunmers fighting for foreign powers will be striped of citizenship.

The Nerevarine's attempt to manufacture war golems backfires. A refurbished Dwemer factory exploded, killing majority of the engineers. Though officials have no comments, an anonymous source blame Argonian saboteurs. (A full op-ed will be in our upcoming magazine, the Tamrielic Guess It)

^{(Clip this article for exclusive guar plushy coupon!)}

Black Marsh: Thorn has fallen to what is assumed to be Akaviri invaders. Confused refugees claim being beset on by "snakes and monkeys". The Great Houses of Morrowind formally declared war on Argonia three days after, their reasons are decades of raids and bizarre deaths on Vvardenfell. Morrowind made no comments regarding southern Akaviri forces but is widely believed to be collaborating.

^{Saxhleel priest comments on the duty of every Argonian. (more on next page)}

Dragontail Mountains: Orcs from Orsinium and beyond attack the Redguard town of Dragon Gate, in retaliation for a massive theft of their forges last month. The suspects have crossed into Hammerfell. Orsinium's demand for an investigation was rewarded with only condescending rhetoric from Redguard officials. As a result, over 1000 Orc warriors razed Dragon Gate and killed every Redguard there (including children and elderly).

Leading the Orc attack was the chieftain of Mors Yalgrond, Lurbuk. In an exclusive interview, he cites his predecessor, Orakh, as inspiration.

^{(Are you an Orc not feeling the "warrior's death"? Come to Kurog's Retreat near Jehanna. Best retirement property four years in a row; no punks on your lawn guaranteed or your money back!)}

Hammerfall: Redguard dictator Temijen declares war against the Orcs as a result, they also mobilize against the Dominion, because of the naval battle at Stros M'Kai (Hammerfell vs. Alinor, over 50 ships sunk on both sides) and the situation in Valenwood (1/3 under joint Imperial-Redguard occupation). His action caused rifts in the forced Forebear-Crown alliance. Widespread conscription have already prompted insular tribes and knight orders to cut ties with Sentinel.

Cyrodiil: Imperial ornithologists unveiled their magic-infused messenger birds. One was used by Maven to contact Cyrodiil. These birds can fly 1.5 times faster than regular pigeons and traverse twice the standard distance. The wing augmenting formula is code-named "Red Minotaur".

Emperor Gaius is paralyzed following a failed assassination. The Nibenese secret society known as the Seventh Estate (rumored to be vampires), is the prime suspect. Individuals associated with the assassins broke out prisoners from Imperial City prison. Known escapees include Caius Speculatus, a former guard captain now likely to be working with the Seventh Estate. The Elder Council has reissued death sentence for Caius.

Since its coverage in our last issue, the disease known as Cyrodilic Disconnect have claimed its first fatalities. Dozens are dead across the Imperial Province, their corpses resembling the victims of soul trap. It is unknown where this disease originated or why it does not spread to other regions. Alchemist Angela Venarius, a native of Chorrol, managed produce a working cure. However, Venarius has fled to Daggerfall following compensation disagreement with the count.

High Rock: Allied Breton forces extend siege against Wayrest. Pirate lord Ambrose Mackin reportedly escaped blockade with his old accomplice, Blaise Dupont. Troop movements suggest the allies are gearing up to take the city.

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Entertainment

Music: A song of clemency. Petition for pardoning Felix aep Caileach (born Trentius); a bard, traitor, mercenary and first to fall against the Kamals. (more on page 5)

Celebrity: Shocking! Redguard bard Cristoffer Braun admits to beating spouse! (more on page 4)

Lifestyle: Enchanters HATE him! Discover how an Argonian peasant put THREE enchantments on his pitchfork with ONE SIMPLE TRICK!

Sports: The journey from adoring fan to champion gladiator. (more on page 8)

Weather: Analysis of northern blizzards in warm seasons. (more on back page)

Edit: reformatted. Also added this issue and the last to Text Collection (OOC post 2).

What Are You Listening To?

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

Featuring @Peik

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The timid, milquetoast Breton would have looked odd in a rural Nordic town to an attentive eye, but at such a time of celebration, attentive eyes would blur and swirl with alcohol, and trace fairer, more lust-inducing curvatures than those of Marcel’s lines. As if his inner mundane had decided that seeping through his face, expression, and specialties was not enough, it had also decided to show itself by using Marcel’s physique as a vessel. He wasn’t bad looking – in fact, one could call him quite handsome, but his sex appeal could only beat something as inane as concrete. Fortunately for Marcel, he wasn’t looking for a lay – he was merely seeking employment, partially because of a lack of drive, and partially out of a sense of gratitude. This mercenary company had after all saved his life – whether from disgruntled mages or starvation and sickness was unclear, but they had. And he believed he could pay back, for after all, ‘magicians’ of his sort were in quite short supply.

He looked for the mercenary leader in the stalls and the streets. Eventually, tired, he made his way to the tavern where he resided, sitting on a stool. Surely Marcel could notice him. He could do that.

Ashav was having a merry good time defecating in the inn's outhouse. He felt quite refreshed after relieving himself of a three-day long constipation. As he was about to reach for the cleaning supplies, he found only empty dissapointment.

"Thoring! Come back here!" Ashav shouted, face reddened in a rare occasion. He would rather face the tavern owner, or one of his employees, rather than exposing his filth-filled orifice to the whole wide world like a certain journalist.

"Anyone? Please!" He shouted again, more desperate and possibly for tavern patrons near the door to hear. If this situation was somehow a prank, he'll have the prankster's head for such crappy humor.

Marcel sat, with the patience of an aspiring prophet waiting for divine revelation. He sat, for what, to some others, may have felt like eons – but Marcel was one of the select few people that could actually discern it as about ten minutes. He waited, and waited, until he heard a cry for help. Only then did he get up, for it was important to help people, so he was taught. He moved through the drunken crowd in the tavern, and the cries for help got louder the closer he got to the back exit. Outside, on the grassy plain, there was nothing but some empty bottles, fences, and an outhouse.

Always a good empathizer, and having suffered from diarrhea in his childhood, Marcel ran back into the tavern to get a jug of water, a corncob, and a sponge. Going outside back to the outhouse, the Breton slowly placed these things on the ground and slid them with the side of his foot from underneath the door.

‘’There!’’ Marcel said with a slow, quiet voice. He wanted to be enthusiastic, for that was usually the best mood when talking to people, but how enthusiastic could you be with a man lacking essentials in a toilet?

Someone actually came for him! It was the voice of a good Samaritan, not Thoring or one his employees that brought him sanitary salvation. "Divines bless you." Ashav shouted to the man beyond the door, assuming the man was still beyond the door (they might be in line for the toilet). The Redguard cleaned himself to be best of his abilities with the sponge, then ran out of water halfway through hand rinsing. There was no soap, but Ashav got used to that a long time ago.

After what seemed to be the longest minute, Ashav stepped outside more or less clean. For some reason, the Breton that delivered the supplies still stood around there. "Thanks for help." Ashav acknowledged him. "Name's Ashav, and tonight's drinks are on me." He stuck out his hand to shake, but he realized there were still bits of filth he didn't wash off; Marcel already shook it at that point.

‘’It is a pleasure to help,’’ Marcel replied to Ashav as he grabbed the man’s hand for a shake, and released it to witness crispy pieces of brown amidst his fingers. Thankfully being mentally fit enough to make the connection, he thanked his master, Diarmid, for reminding him to wear gloves whenever possible, and made a mental note to rinse the glove good with lye.

‘’I am Marcel Gawain, pleased to meet you. So it is you who leads the famed Company that led the expedition to Winterhold. I have to say, I am in your debt. It was your men that led me out of there,’’ Marcel said as he walked back into the inn alongside the man. ‘’In fact, I was planning on signing up. I have been out of work for far too long. And I would be proud to say that my repertoire of skills aren’t found easy in this region, let alone the rest of Tamriel,’’ Marcel said, as he flicked a finger at Thoring the Innkeeper for attention. When the man refused to budge, Marcel got up, excused himself to Ashav for a minute, and walked over to the counter to ask for some soap and two bowls of hot water.

Thoring responded in record time, probably because of the danger of dried feces on his table and the dirty look Ashav gave him. Hot water bowls and soap appeared in no time, and Ashav breathed a relieved sigh washing his hands. "That's more like it." He thought out loud. Then noticing Marcel's dirty glove, Ashav applogized. "Hope I didn't ruin it, it looked like good leather to me."

Having then dried his hands on a towel ripped from Thoring's bar, Ashav turned to what Marcel suggested. "You want to join up?" He asked. "My company extracted you from Winterhold, correct? And I assume that repertoire of skills consist of magic?"

‘’Oh, not at all, sir, these gloves have had to deal with much worse,’’ Marcel replied to Ashav as he removed his glove and took the soap and dipped it in the water to start scrubbing. Indeed, these gloves had been smeared with blood of various strains in the past, having protected Marcel against blood tainted by Sanies Lupinus, Porphyric Hemophilia, Sanguinare Vampiris, and the ever-rare Noxiphilic Sanguivoria. Mere feces would be nothing compared to what these gloves had gone through.

‘’Yes, sir, your company helped me get out of Winterhold, hence my wish to join. And I suppose you could say my skills count as magic – only of a different sort,’’ Marcel said, drifting off towards the end. ‘’I’m afraid I’ve never been much good with regular magic. I have been told that I dampen magic, as well. I was mentored by Diarmid Goupeville, a Hunter of abominable beasts. He taught me how to manipulate magic itself, as opposed to shaping it into forms, be they harmful or helpful, like a regular mage would.’’ Marcel took a breath, scrubbing his glove good. It was covered in bubbles by this point, and he poured a little amount of water on it to wash it off.

‘’To put it simply, sir, I turn magic back – halt people from disturbing the Earth Bones, in a way. I’ve been a hunter of such disturbances for almost a dozen years now. I’ve fought various sorts of rampant mages, were-beasts, undead, witches, vampires, and things still worse,’’ Marcel said, checking his glove. It seemed clean now, but he began scrubbing it again, just in case. ‘’And, on the way here, I have heard that these calamities these lands are suffering are because of forces long forgotten to Tamriel. And I would like to help, sir. Spending anymore time amongst those mages in Winterhold could have been harmful to me, or them,’’ Marcel said, chuckling lightly.

Much worse than human excrement sounded like something Ashav doesn't want to know, we'll, unlike it's going to affect mission integrity. He doubted things like troll shit or monster remains could get in anyone's near future. Of course, what the Breton man presented in his verbal resume confirmed the fact his gloves once sifted through the worst Tamriel has to offer. Ashav watched the man methodically scrubbing his glove clean and described his encounters with patience. This witch hunter appeared calm and orderly at a glance, something Ashav absolutely appreciate following the fiasco with Jorwen. But what disturbed him was the fact Marcel somehow disrupted magic of all kinds. He could already see magic users such as Keegan, Tsleeixth or Elmera raising concerns with such person beside them. On the bright side, he'll enjoy being called sir a few more times.

"Where did you get them?" Ashav pointed to the gloves absentmindedly while pondered on a potential contract. "I could have our quartermaster procure a few sets like that."

Having made up his mind, Ashav first ordered a round of drinks for himself and Marcel, only did he talk when half a cup of water went down. He paid Thoring up front for both beverages to make true of his promise earlier. "If what you said is true, then you have a very unique skill set." Adjusting his gaze on Marcel, Ashav talked with hand gesture. "And given how you alter magic, there are side effects some colleague might be concerned with."

"I have no employment suiting you at this time," Ashav shrugged, "but if you are planning to stay around in the next few days, I might be able to find you work." Tapping the table to signal the end of the conversation, Ashav asked Marcel once more if he wanted to order anything else. As the Breton in front of Ashav started to leave, another came in. Ariane made her entrance just time, because Ashav will need someone to make sense of the magic mumble-jumble.

‘’I see, sir. I can understand your concern, and I can see where you are coming from. I haven’t worked much alongside larger groups of people and, now that you have mentioned it, I can see why my presence could hinder the company at points,’’ Marcel replied to Ashav as he patted the glove on the side of the table to get the remnants of soapy water off. It seemed quite clean now.

‘’I believe I shall stay here for a few days. I don’t have a destination right now, but it’s not hard for a man like me to find employment in times like these, especially in a land such as Skyrim. I would nonetheless appreciate if you informed me of possible contracts.’’ He got off the table as the Redguard made gestures that signaled the end of the conversation. As he walked to leave, he suddenly turned to answer Ashav's question.

‘’As for the gloves, sir, I bought them from a tailor in Skingrad. He was a man named Gerich Varo, quite a skilled worker both with leather and cloth. Anyhow, let me not dabble any further,’’ Marcel said, following his words with a small nod of respect, and then proceeding to walk out of the inn.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

I am confused as to what is transpiring in this conversation.

@POOHEAD189

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

@gcold What does a Bitch fuck have to do with anything? Ёботная пизда... Я переспью с твоей матерью, но только в положении, в котором ты не закроешь свой рот.

Google translate ALMOST understands this right...

@Scout

Warning: Cancer