rpg101 — Roleplayer Guild

Somewhere on the coast of Hammerfell
Flames licked at the flesh of the beast that was hoisted above the firepit by an iron spit. A Redguard, dressed in dark colored robes, manned the spit and carefully turned it, allowing each portion of the meat to be kissed just right by the fire.

The smell was intoxicating. A variety of spices had been firmly rubbed into the goat’s hide, mixtures of ground scarlet peppers and dark colored spices that hailed from across the tough land of Hammerfell. They mixed together in a bordello of savory and exotic flavors that wet the tongue and drove the mind mad with desire. Globs of fat melted under the heat of the fire pit, causing it to dribble achingly across the carcass and soak into the meat, promising a juicy bite to whoever had the pleasure of sinking his teeth into it.

While dinner was prepared, a few of the travelers had relaxed not far from the fires and were listening to a bard strum upon a lute. He was a Nord, thin and worthy of the title of ‘milkdrinker’ in his homeland of Skyrim, or rather, what was left of it. He strummed a lute and sang them songs of heroes from happier days, the Hero of Kvatch, the Dragonborn, Ragnar the Red, and the heroes who had placed Tactus Mede on the throne.

Well, when they still had a throne.

A Redguard called them towards the pit, and the travelers eagerly scooted themselves close to it. With a steel dagger, the man carved out chunks of roasted meat, bits of fat and juices that had mingled with the plethora of spices were now dripping onto the ground. He laid each slice onto a person’s plate beside a hunk of baked bread. They slunk back to their seats, eagerly devouring the delicious meat and mopping up the remains with their bread.

Once they were away and consuming their rations, the cook sawed off his own portion before waving for the others. Half a dozen Redguards, each wearing a curved Hammerfell scimitar at his waist, approached the goat, their daggers out for their own meal. Crossing Hammerfell was dangerous, no matter how strong the Dwemer forces were, they could not stop the beasts and bandits who walked the shadows.

One of them carved off two slices of the roasted meat and brought it to an Altmer sitting against a rock, a walking stick lying across lap and a worn leatherbound book in his hands. The man held out the wooden plate and the High Elf took it with a nod of thanks. Groaning and with several pops in his knee, the Redguard sat opposite the mer, who had already begun gnawing into the tough bread that made up the majority of their rations.

“Have you been to Hammerfell before?” The Redguard asked.

Valsiore finished chewing the bread and washed it down with a bit of wine from his skin before he started to respond. “I have actually. I served here during the Great War.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, “Did you fight wit-“

“No.” The Altmer’s mouth was a thin line, and he met the Redugard’s intense glare with one equally as ferocious. “I fought with you and your kind.” He spoke slowly, letting him know that he had found the question offensive.

The man’s expression changed in an instant, he gave the elf a smile and outstretched his hand. “Ehsan,” he said, “fought with the Sultan’s armies to drive out the Thalmor bastards.”

“Valsiore,” the Altmer’s gaze softened and he took Ehsan’s hand, “I served in Cyrodiil until the Emperor signed over his balls to Dominion. I spent five years fighting my kin, and I wasn’t going to let that go to waste.” His slender fingers tore off a bit of the goat meat, “I wasn’t ready to stop fighting yet, so I came here. I wasn’t accepted to quickly as an Altmer, but magic is useful in combat, so my help couldn’t be outright denied.”

They talked for some time. Not just of the war, but of their families and their homes. Valsiore didn’t have much to say, but Ehsan was more than capable. He told the elf of his wife at home, pregnant with their third child, and after two boys that couldn’t sit still, he was hoping for a beautiful little girl. They were lived back on Stros M'kai, and he had had to tear his two little rascals from his legs before they had departed.

Their conversation ended when they heard screaming.

The guards on watch were on their feet in the blink of an eye, their hands around the hilts of their scimitars. The travelers lifted their heads, a few scooting closer to the comforting presence of their armed guards.

“It came from the coast!” One of the men yelled.

Ehsan stood, “I’ll check it out. Achel, with me.” One of the guards sighed and crawled out of his bedroll, grabbing for his sword and following his superior. They gathered up a torch for each of them and lit them with the flames from the firepit.

Valsiore sighed and used his staff so that he could haul himself up. “I’ll come with you,” he said. “My magic may be of some use.”

-

The walk was surprisingly short. They hurried towards the sounds of screaming, which had begun to evolve into the much more ferocious sounds of combat. Warcries, inhuman screeches, and the sounds of metal biting into flesh. It was a sound the veterans of the Great War knew well, and as they walked through the darkness, it wasn’t difficult to imagine that they were hunting a Thalmor party once again.

When the group of three made their way over a ridge of tightly packed sand, they came upon what looked like the campsite of a raiding party. Numerous campfires burned, men and women were armed with an assortment of weapons were screaming as a number of approached. The creatures were wrapped in shadow, and from their location Valsiore and the others were unable to make out what they were. New war machines from the Dwemer? Beasts of Oblivion? Had the eight declared this judgement day?

A ball of light, the spell Magelight, flared to life from the palm of one of the fighters. It struck the sands and illuminated the entire beach, granting the newcomers a view of the battlefield.

A ship had run aground on the beach, its wooden corpse littering the sands with a thousand pounds of driftwood. The beasts that the sailors were fighting were enormous scorpions, dozens of them had surrounded the shipwrecked crew and were cutting them apart. A few bodies of the local beasts had already joined the dead of the crew, but it didn’t look like the odds were in the favor of the sailors.

“We have to help them!” Ehsan said.

“There’s too many of them,” Valsiore said, “we’d get cut apart if tried to help them.”

“If they make it to our camp, half a dozen of us won’t stop them!” Ehsan growled, “We kill them here we keep our charges alive.”

“Or we go back to the camp and get moving immediately, while the pack’s distracted.”

“We can’t leave them to die!” Achel said. When neither the elf nor his fellow Redguard made a move to the sailors, he drew his blade and charged the closest scorpion. Ignoring the protests from Valsiore and Ehsan, he swung his blade and sliced off one of the back limbs of the scorpion. The creatures screeched and swung on him in an instant, its pincer jabbing forward. The Redguard knocked the appendage aside, swinging again and striking the thorax. The steel cut into the scales, but stuck fast, and as Achel tried to free it the scorpion’s tail flashed. The stinger, sharp as a spear, impaled him through the chest and lifted him three feet in the air. Blood gushed from the wound and his screaming turned their blood to ice. The tail jerked and threw the corpse off a good sixty feet.

His body landed awfully close to Valsiore, the man’s blood coating his redshirt.

“Fuck,” Ehsan said, “I think we’re in this now.” He drew his own scimitar, “Best not to charge blindly.”

The Altmer nodded and swung his hands, his palms filling with balls of fire, “Go first, I’ll provide cover.”

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