SoulChrysamere

The Elder Scrolls: Witchhunters' Gambit

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, The Roxey Steakhouse -- Midyear, 4E 201

Gavinyarel had planned on going to bed early tonight, but the raucous entrance of a dark-clothed Breton girl stole his attention away from sleep. There was a slightly smallish crossbow at one leg, and a knife at the other; a quiver of bolts was on her back. Yet, for all her gear, Gavinyarel noticed the auburn hairs on the back of her neck were bristled. He thought perhaps she'd met with a highwayman and either parted with her purse the hard way or repaid his aggression with a bolt. The lack of blood swayed him toward the former.

Once the girl reached the counter, the zeal with which she knocked back her drinks only retold the story her entrance told. He paid her no more attention then, content to let her mind process whatever had happened on its own. He twiddled a fork in fingers as he went back to browsing the patrons. Dusk hadn't quite yet tinged the windows gold, but he prayed for the moment it did so he could retire for the night. The road to Skyrim hadn't been an easy one at the start, and with the formidable Jerall Mountains looming in the distance, deceptively beautiful to mortal eyes in all their snow-shod grandeur, he hardly expected things to smooth out anytime soon.

Not long after, the Breton girl defied his ignorance by boisterously proclaiming that she was a "professional witchhunter" as she put it, a woman able to face those heart-stopping horrors that dwell within the deepest, darkest, most miserable and isolated nooks and crannies Tamriel had to offer. Gavinyarel casually glanced around the room and wondered who she was fooling. He observed her crossbow and her other gear more closely, humoring himself as to why a master of her trade would wield tools of apprentice-level quality at best. I bet her backpack's got little more than provisions and grooming supplies in it.

Now intrigued, Gavinyarel followed with his eyes as she marched over to the bulletin board littered with the sketches of outlaws and the brokenhearted pleas of people that were foolish enough to haul their inexperienced hides into some dark, dank cave and drop their lucky rusted butter knife deep inside in their haste to escape the gargantuan shadow inching ever closer around a corner lit by the sunlight coming in through a second opening. Gavinyarel almost felt more sorry for the little mouse or squirrel that owned the shadow, who'd then round the corner only to find his new visitor frantically fleeing for his life, shouting stammered prayers to any holy-sounding person or being their frantic minds could pull from beneath the cobwebs. Perhaps she dabbles in bandit hunting or trinket retrieval too... he thought as he watched her peruse the board. He smirked at her from his corner for a moment or two, but his smirk soon flipped into a frown when he remembered one particular notice, an urgent demand for some brave soul to take up the sword against a foul zombie defiling the cemetery. No...surely not... Gavinyarel said inwardly.

His fascination with her mood's capacity to change with her alcohol content soured as she announced her latest crusade. He saw her stumble back out of the inn and even watched her blunder against the fence posts for a bit. He rolled his eyes and cupped his head in his hand. I'm probably going to regret this, but I suppose I should at least get fifty septims out of this...assuming she survives this. he thought as he got up and began following her at a distance; he'd interrupted women on missions before, and he'd always been sorry for it in the past.

The Elder Scrolls: Witchhunters' Gambit

Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, the Roxey Steakhouse -- Midyear, 4E 201


It was the middle of summer that late afternoon in northern Cyrodiil. The lofty Jerall Mountains stood silhouetted against the deep blue sky awaiting the twilight sun to color it its gentle orange-red. The forest stretching north from the village was full green with tall, strong trees, and children and their pets could be seen romping around in their efforts to squeeze a few more precious moments of playtime out of the day. The villagers were finishing up the day's chores, trying to set one more fence post or bind up one more hay bale before heading to the Roxey Steakhouse for their supper.

The steakhouse was a grand, two-story edifice among the village's simple homes, its size surpassed only by the great barn behind it. A tall stone chimney poked up from the roof. The first floor catered to the hungry and thirsty, while the second held the rooms where weary travelers could rest their heads on a pillow.

Gavinyarel was seated in the back corner of the tavern, halfway through his dinner of roasted venison and fried potatoes, and on his third mug of ale. He was leaned against the back of his chair, silently observing everyone else and appreciating how they dug into their meals with all the gusto of hard workers finally able to lay down their tools for a little while. He wished he could share in their rapture, but he knew all too well that his mission would drag him out of bed at the crack of dawn and spur him ever closer to Skyrim. In a way, he envied them.

The northbound Altmer quietly ate the rest of his meal and downed another mug of ale before the sleepiness began to come. He scooted his chair against the wall and rested his head in the corner as he contemplated how wonderful a real bed would feel compared to the bedroll he had resting beside him, which was only ever as soft as the ground upon which it lay, which of course meant rarely soft at all.

Little did Gavinyarel know that things would soon get much more interesting.

Witchhunters' Gambit

An old and experienced witchhunter on a quest for a powerful artifact that promises him his biggest payout yet, and an aspiring witchhunter on a quest for revenge against a necromancer that killed her mother. These two travelers find themselves in each other's company and become unlikely partners as they journey toward the cold and war-torn land of Skyrim, which is trapped in the thick of the Stormcloak Rebellion and the return of the dragons. This is not a tale of heroes driving back ancient, apocalyptic evil. This is the story of an unlikely troop of adventurers that find themselves pitted against an adversarial force that, while not a harbinger of the end times, is still powerful enough to cause major trouble in the corner of the world it occupies.

This is meant to be a fun experience of a group of adventurers, united by paralleling interests or directions, that must learn to work together and overcome the challenges of a province that will only get darker and sadder as events progress.

The necromancer - a student of Mannimarco's style (Duke of Worms, we'll call him), supported by seven lords and the usual undead servants such people keep, will be the main villain. There will be two lairs for him: a false one out in remote wilderness (which will be reached first), and the real hidden-in-plain-sight lair.

Just a few quick clarifications on how the magic and other stuff will work for this:

This is not meant to be a game simulation, where the actual game's mechanics control everything that happens.

With Conjuration, summoning weapons has changed a bit in Skyrim from earlier titles -- earlier games rendered the gear as solid, Daedric-appearing objects while Skyrim renders them as pinkish-purple, ethereal entities. Taking some creative license with this, we have established that the longevity and usefulness of summoned weapons and armor is relative to how solid they appear. For example, a novice conjurer may only be able to summon a very transparent sword that will probably not be very strong or sharp; as he gains experience, he will be able to conjure swords that become more opaque, hold sharper edges for longer, and resist breakage better. Concentration also factors in. A novice conjurer will likely have to devote more effort to concentrating and keeping his sword manifested, meaning that if he is distracted, or if he is surprised and hastily conjures one, it may become ethereal and wispy to the point that it passes harmlessly through the target -- or at least does not do any significant damage upon striking it.

As for fighting special enemies (like vampires and undead)... Ethereal beings are subjected to Oblivion-style rules: silver, Daedric, and enchanted only. Even high-quality unenchanted items, like ebony, will not work unless enchanted. Physical beings may be harmed by any sort of weapon, but only silver, Daedric, and enchanted gear will inflict lasting injuries (e. g.: iron mace strikes a vampire in the chest, ribs may get broken and bruising may occur, but would very quickly heal -- silver mace strikes a vampire in the ribs, those same injures would last and take roughly the same amount of time to heal as they would with a normal mortal).

Travel time is calculated according to the map and distances found here: reddit.com/r/teslore/comments/ui64h/t…

Bandits, wildlife, and other nuisances are not suicidal homing missiles that instantly attack anything that wanders a little too close to their camp. A bandit gang preying on travelers on a road should have the smarts to gauge whether or not they're equipped to handle something more than defenseless commoners.