Spoopy Scary

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

^{ft. @Father Hank and @Chicken}

Noon of the 5th day of Last Seed, 4E205
Solitude, Skyrim
Aboard the Kyne’s Tear

While the rest of the mercenaries, able-bodied men and women all, carried their belongings (if they weren’t already there) and supplies onto the ship, Niernen had made herself comfortable on the deck, sitting cross-legged on a crate, reduced to watching the proceedings unfold. She was useless when it came to heavy lifting. Her meager belongings were already stowed below, so she supposed that she could have helped a bit with telekinesis, but it was draining to have to lift something as heavy as the mercenaries’ chests and barrels of goods and she preferred to have her magicka reserves fully replenished when they set sail. Her time at sea hadn’t exactly been uneventful so far -- the Dunmer sorceress had been involved in two-and-a-half naval battles just in the past week. You never knew when you needed to hurl fireballs at opportunistic pirates or, gods forbid, the Kamal.

Word had come through the grapevine (i.e. Dough-Boy telling everyone who wanted to hear about it) that some new recruits had signed up with the Company. Niernen had already spotted one, a Khajiit, but he looked like he didn’t feel very well so she left him alone. She thought about the people that had died or vanished so far and sighed. Valen’s demise, especially the look on his face as the dying Kamal dragged him into the waves, was still etched into her mind. Niernen hoped that the worst was behind them now and the new sign-ups wouldn’t have to endure the same hardships.

A dark-skinned Hammerfell warrior started past the ship, but stopped and peered back at it. The warrior turned back and started toward the vessel, heading up onto the deck, his - wait, no, her - padded cloth just a bit too bright and red, and the chainmail decorated with a tabard of what must have been some Redguard symbol of some kind. Certainly, though, the fighter was a little short for her race… Niernen squinted at the approaching woman and spied some of the same facial features she recognized from Wylendriel.

Wait, was that a Bosmer? She was tall for her race. The dark-skinned elvish woman stepped up aboard the ship, then focused her attention on Niernen with haughty, sharp amber eyes. She removed her helmet, tucked it under her arm, then shook her head so her dreadlocks waved from side to side. Niernen returned the Bosmer’s gaze with a mixture of trepidation and politeness. Odds were that this woman was one of the new recruits, but Niernen’s anxiety made her wary all the same.

“You work for Ashav,” the odd elf said. Her tone was matter-of-fact and allowed no argument. “Tell me where my quarters are.”

Surprised and bemused at the Bosmer’s tone, Niernen raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know,” she replied. “But based on your outfit I’m guessing that you’ll be joining the infantry, so probably with the rest of us on the first level of the hold. What’s your name? I’m Niernen, the company’s resident battlemage.”

“Are not battlemages normally hale and hearty?” mused the Hammerfell warrior. She gave Niernen a scrutinizing look, peering up and down at her. “You are barely in a shape to walk, let alone fight.” Then she let her wrist rest idly at her side, and she bowed in a cordial, formal fashion to the seated Dunmer. When she spoke again, it was with pride: “I am Adaeze at-Djer. I am Ra Gada.”

“Charmed.” Niernen frowned and bit her tongue -- her own pride was hissing at her to inform this callous Adaeze woman that physical prowess was irrelevant when it came to incinerating her enemies, but she didn’t. The Bosmer would eventually learn that Niernen was just as dangerous as the rest of the mercenaries. Actions speak louder than words, after all. But she couldn’t resist a prying question about Adaeze’s own appearance, and said: “And you look a little elvish to be calling yourself that, Adaeze.” That brought a twitch to the Bosmer’s eye. “I thought the Ra Gada were Redguards. Isn’t it --”

“I am Redguard!” snapped the elf with a hiss of a tone. Her eyes were narrowed in a glare, and at a second glance it appeared she was gripping her sword’s hilt. Niernen was a little taken aback by this and her sour expression made way for one of surprise. It took a very visible effort - an effort seen on Adaeze’s face as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath - to pull her hand away from her sword. The dark-skinned elf exhaled, then snapped her eyes open, regarding Niernen with a stony expression.

“I am Redguard,” she repeated, her voice shaky. “And it besmirches my honor that I nearly struck at you. You have my apologies. But,” she added in a warning tone, regaining her composure, “do not mistake my apology for allowance to repeat your insult.”

“Ayem’s mercy, woman,” Niernen said, her tone slightly exasperated. “And I thought my brother was prejudiced towards Bosmer.”

“I’m not prejudiced,” protested Adaeze, folding her arms over her chest. “I’m merely speaking truth. I am Ra Gada.”

Can you not be Ra Gada and Bosmer at the same time? Niernen thought but she didn’t vocalize the question out loud, lest she taunted Adaeze into actually striking her down with that sword of hers. It was a dangerous looking sword, to be sure, large enough to slice someone in twain, and with a silvery sheen.

“Enough of that,” the Hammerfell woman said. “I should know when we mean to set out, and whether you know what manner of deeds we’ll be committing in High Rock. Tell me that, if you will.” Her words were clipped and terse, and she stood a few steps further back than she had before she exploded.

“Very well,” Niernen acquiesced, glad that the confrontational moment was over and eager to move onto a less offensive topic of conversation. “We are to set sail today, as it so happens. I don’t know what we’ll be doing in High Rock. That shall depend on who becomes our employer. We served the Jarl in Dawnstar before this so I imagine that Ashav and Gustav will offer our services to the local authorities first. And it’s High Rock, you know what Bretons are like,” Niernen said, attempting a moment of camaraderie in being condescending towards a race that wasn’t one of theirs. “Always scheming.”

“They’re a squirmy lot, to be sure,” Adaeze mused, peering off toward the ocean. “But as much as we’ve fought in the past, they’re at least better than the orcs. Their unique style of swordsmanship is well-suited to fighting armored foes as well. I look forward to learning what I can while we’re there.” The warrior paused, then looked back at Niernen.

“Are there any aboard this vessel whom would duel, should the mood strike them?” The dark Bosmer tapped the sheathed sword at her side. “I look forward to testing my mettle against that of seasoned mercenaries, and it would help prepare us for the coming days.”

Niernen immediately pictured Adaeze facing off against Narzul and his ebony sword and failed to suppress laughter at the thought. She had no way of gauging the skill of this Bosmeri Redguard, of course, so it wasn’t the forecome conclusion of the outcome that she was laughing at, but it seemed a stretch to assume that the elf would fare well against Niernen’s brother. Even so, what she was really laughing at were the barbed insults that Narzul would undoubtedly taunt Adaeze with, if his encounter with Wylendriel was anything to go by. Normally Niernen didn’t take kindly to Narzul’s racism but Adaeze’s apparent inclination to rise to the bait of such venom made for too much of an amusing mental image.

“I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you,” the Dunmer clarified immediately after.

“Then what are you laughing at?” demanded a once-again sour-faced Adaeze.

“Ah, well, it’s just such a forward question, you know?” Niernen lied, improvising another plausible reason for her laughter. “You’re the first person I’ve ever met that’s immediately inquired after potential sparring partners upon meeting new people. Nothing wrong with that, just unexpected. Now, let me think,” she continued and tapped her chin with her index finger.

The words seemed to mollify the Bosmer. She calmed, closed her eyes, exhaled - a refrain to the previous deescalation - and then finally waved her hand in a ‘go on’ sort of gesture.

“Though I have never seen him do so, you might find one of our Khajiit, Do’Karth, to agree to a sparring match. He’s a very agile pacifist that fights with a staff. Quite unorthodox. There’s also a Nord woman on board named Sevine.” Niernen swallowed hard and suppressed the emotions associated with that name. “Nords love a challenge. Oh! Daixanos, one of the Argonians, is a very skilled hunter and warrior, and I believe he acted as a champion in a duel before. I don’t know the full story, wasn’t around for that, but you should ask him.”

Then she sighed. “And then there’s my brother, Narzul. Redoran warrior. I would stay away from him for the time being if I were you, though. He’s… really, really Dunmer. Know what I mean?”

“He wears bugs?” asked the wood elf in a confused tone. Apparently, that passed as ‘really, really Dunmer’ for Hammerfell folk.

Dumbfounded, Niernen took a second or two to answer. “What? No. No bugs.”

“I am misinformed,” Adaeze mused, then peered about the ship, as if to try and spot the crew Niernen spoke of. “And who among all those people you mentioned would be the most handy with a blade? I wish to face the best this company has to offer. If I win, I shall understand the limits of what I will learn from my compatriots. If I lose, I shall have a goal.”

“That would be Narzul,” Niernen replied without hesitation. “But let me clarify what I meant before when I said ‘really, really Dunmer’: he will not only call you a Bosmer upon seeing you, he will also incessantly insult you for being one -- not that I’m saying you’re Bosmer! But he will say that. Most of my people are… well, pretty racist. I try not to be. He makes no such efforts.”

“I see,” mused Adaeze. She reached up with one hand and stroked her chin, seeming deep in thought. Perhaps reason had found purchase. Perhaps she wouldn’t go and immediately-

“I should like to fight him right away,” the wood elf decided. “Perhaps when he is beaten he will learn some humility.”

Niernen nodded slowly. “I see. We tried that before and it didn’t work, actually.”

“I have a way with swords,” the wood elf said. “He’ll see my viewpoint.”

“If you insist,” the Dunmer replied, thinking quickly. “I’ll go find him! You wait here, alright?” Niernen waved a quick goodbye as she hopped off the crate and set off as fast as her sore legs could carry her towards the stairs down to the hold, determined to find Narzul and insist that he did not, under any circumstances, duel Adaeze. Or engage with her at all. She didn’t trust him not to aggravate her too badly, and she had enough of dealing with the social mess Narzul made.

As she fled away, Adaeze simply smiled contentedly. “What a helpful woman,” she said to herself.

“You handle yourself like a Jaqspur before the hunt,” said the sound of an amused feminine voice. Adaeze's first instinct was to grip the hilt of her sword, alarmed that someone could have sneaked up o her. It came a couple of feet away from Adaeze’s side and, upon investigation, it became clear it had come from a shorter bosmer woman dressed in green and brown robes made of various furs, wool, and leathers. She was leaning against the taffrail around port side of the main deck, crossing her arms, and a bemused look seemed to liven up an otherwise weary face.

Adaeze didn’t speak immediately. Indeed, she didn’t do much at all but raise her eyebrows and stare in a sort of dumbfounded manner at the other Bosmer woman. As the uncomfortable silence fell, the only word that escaped the Hammerfell woman’s mouth was “Jaqspur?” in a bewildered tone.

The smile on the priestess’ face turned back into a frown for a moment, then almost into a look of pity. She rocked her head to the side and sighed, “I thought not. It’s a shame to see a daughter of the Earth Bones born so far from home.”

“My home is Hammerfell,” said the other elf matter-of-factly.

At first the priestess shook her head, apparently not agreeing with the claim Adaeze had made, but there was a moment of hesitation where no words or argument came out. Instead, she merely dipped her head out of respect, clearly seeing that she has offended and showed her apologies through this simple gesture. Looking back up to face Adaeze, her tired yet welcoming expression became a touch more somber. It was a look of disappointment as much as it was one of understanding.

“Ah… sorry then.” She said. “I suppose I was hoping for some familiarity here. Skyrim has been… inhospitable.”

“The land is frozen, the sky rains ice, and the people that dwell here are walking bears,” muttered Adaeze. She absently rubbed her hands together for warmth. Her hand was away from her sword for once! “I will rest easier when we arrive in High Rock. The Bretons can be disagreeable, but the land itself is comfortable, if rocky.”

The woman just smiled and stifled a bit of laughter, trying instead to keep her composure. She nodded and said, “Yes it’s cold, but that’s nothing you can’t get used to.”

She stuck out her hand to Adaeze and greeted her with a warm expression, saying, “My name is Wylendriel. I’m this company’s chaplain.”

Yet Adaeze didn’t answer immediately. Her attention was focused on Wylendriel’s smile - or, more specifically, her sharp teeth. A frown slowly drifted onto her face. “Of course,” said the swordswoman, not truly having heard the other Bosmer’s words.

Wylendriel retrieved her hand and absentmindedly held her arms together close to her body, raising an eyebrow at Adaeze. Her curious look became more scrutinizing as she said, “Did I offend?”

“What?” The warrior’s stare flicked away from Wylendriel’s teeth. “Offend? No.” She spoke in a clipped tone and swept her left hand to the side, then let it rest on her sheathed sword at the wrist, just as she had earlier. “You are what again?”

“A chaplain.” Wy repeated. She studied Adaeze more closely now, making note how her eyes would quickly flit one way then back to eye contact - one way, then back to eye contact. She was looking at her own mouth, leer intently at her eyes, perhaps to the sides of Wy’s head; her ears? Though the priestess was previously self-conscious and guarded, her disposition softened, as did the manner of her countenance. “By Y’ffre,” she cooed, “poor thing. Bela fara, don’t tell me you’ve never met your own kind before.”

Something about the way Wylendriel spoke sparked a fire in the darker-skinned elf. Adaeze scowled at the other woman, and seemed about to retort. Her right hand rose up, one finger raised, and she seemed ready to burst. She stopped, however. Instead, the Hammerfell warrior lowered her hand, and said in a level (but cold) tone, “I believe I need to settle in.”

That was all. Adaeze started marching away from the other elf, down toward the lower decks. Wylendriel watched, puzzled and slightly worried, as the proud warrior left her view with an angry scowl dressing her face. Part of her wanted to grab the collar of the lass and yank her back like the child she was and get to the bottom of her haughty attitude, sitting her down by force if she must! But the more she thought about it, the more perturbed she felt about what had just happened. The first time she got to see another bosmer in Skyrim, and she looked at her like she was an alien, then left with a cold shoulder to her own devices. She felt the heat of her ire welling into her chest, but it suddenly sank low and heavy. Cold.

‘Why does this keep happening to me?’ She thought. ‘Is all of this my fault?’

The priestess looked off to the side to see the old khajiit once again, next to Dough-Boy who was hard at work at cleaning the laundry that Ashav must have appointed him to. Poor kid. The new blood was distracting himself with meditation, and though he was difficult to read, it seemed not even he could hide the signs of a bad case of nausea. Perhaps another day she would have greeted them - helped them even, but with one failed meeting already under her belt, she didn’t feel up to any more disappointments for today. With a word on the tip of her tongue, she closed her lips and remained silent. Instead she meandered off elsewhere, continuing her rounds around the ship.

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

Noon, Last Seed 5
Kyne's Tear, Solitude Harbor

The crashing of the waves.

Whooooosh... ssss..

No matter where one was at in the world, the mother moons were always a constant. They pull at the very oceans of Mundus, and it was those very waves that battered against the jagged rocks along the shore of Haafingar, spraying salty mist into the air and giving it the same taste and smell as the ocean. To some, it smelled like home. While the stinging bite of its coldness was sharp against the lungs compared to the warmer, gentler, and thicker air of Senchal, there was no doubt in the old khajiit's mind that it was the same ocean smell he remembered and that made his trip on board this miserable boat slightly more bearable.

It was just enough to stifle the sour smell of his new commander's vomit that spilled all over that uppity and frolicking snoot's laundry basket before him. He never trusted such figures, if for no other reason than because of the authority they imposed. Who was any one man to lead the life of another? The lives of many? Emperors, Kings, and Manes - it did not matter. Being favored by the gods did not mean favored by mortalkind as gods could see potential but mortals could not. They'd have to prove that potential to them, and so far, Dar'Jzo did not see it. He only provided a service in exchange for payment.

Though Dar'Jzo maintained a stoic and stony disposition, he leered again into the basket and bristled his whiskers. He felt his stomach turn at both the smell of grisly task laid before him and the bobbing of the ship on the water. This was not the kind of labor he meant. He was no enemy of hard or dirty work and he couldn't say that he was above of such labors, no - he has sunken far lower before - but today of all days? He simply did not have the stomach for it. It was only just the other day did he hear from a local just outside of Solitude that they saw another khajiit matching Saddi's profile with a human girl on a travel carriage heading westward toward High Rock.

Supposedly the road led to Jehanna, and that was when he learned of this mercenary company heading in the same direction by boat. If he had a senche friend with him, he'd be catching up to his grandson in no time. Now? He just had to take a rickety old boat and hope that the smell of vomit, bobbing on the water, and the sense of trepidation didn't work together to make him lose his breakfast. Every time he looked down at the job expected of him, he'd return his gaze straight ahead and steel his nerves. His composure was impressive - anyone else would just see a quiet, mysterious, and gloomy old cat. They never would've known that it was taking everything from him just to keep himself together.

His scrawny companion across from him seemed less reluctant in diving into the mess, furiously scrubbing away at one of the garments inside a bucket of clean water. The sooner it's done, the sooner it's over with, he'd say. When one of the crew called him Dough-Boy, Dar'Jzo must have preferred that instead of his actual name, since he had long since forgotten was his real name actually was. Dough-Boy was hard at work while Dar'Jzo seemed at ease in his meditation. He sat on the deck with his legs crossed, hands rested on his knees, and leering at everything with squinted eyes - wordlessly. To be honest, it was getting on the young man's nerves, yet the strange old cat made him feel a tad too uncomfortable to really say much about it. He found him off-putting even during their first meeting, for he was not much for chit-chat. He said his name was Dar'Jzo, and that was it for introductions. When pressed to share more about himself, all he said was that "this one works and he hunts".

You know what he has done so far ever since he told him what their shared responsibility for today was? Sitting in the same spot, expressionless and speechless, and staring at him the whole damn time. To be honest it was starting to get a little creepy. Whoever this Dar'Jzo guy was, he was unsettling, and it was getting on his nerves that he wasn't doing a damn thing to help! Meanwhile, Dough-Boy just spent all morning hauling cargo and now he was cleaning someone else's vomit for Stendarr's sake!

"Uh... Dar'Jzo?" The young man says nervously. The old cat didn't move his head or any other part of his body, only aiming his feline eyes at the young man. Dough-Boy averted eye-contact and continued, "Would you mind giving me a hand? The commander put me in charge of you new bloods, I can't just let you... well, do nothing."

"Yes." He answered simply. A brief moment of quiet had brewed between the two for a while. Both silent, both unmoving - until Dough-Boy broke the silence with, "Uh... yes as in...? You'll help? Or you do mind?"

"No."

"Right..." The young man continued awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand - before suddenly realizing that he had been using that hand to clean vomit and quickly recoiled, wiping that hand dry on his shirt. His eyes darted uncomfortably between the laundry and Dar'Jzo, trying to think of something or some way to get his authority across.

"This one cannot help you." Dar'Jzo said. Though he sent his message across plainly in his gravelly old voice, he could practically feel his soul screaming inside. His stomach was wrenching itself, his brain was slamming itself against the inside of his cranium - and Dar'Jzo couldn't help but think, 'Please kid, do not make this worse for yourself than it has to be.' He just wanted a bit of silence so that he could focus on not turning inside out, but Dough-Boy's sense of responsibility, while admirable, was something of a hound that wouldn't stop humping his leg.

Great, now he had that image stuck in his head. Dar'Jzo just felt himself getting sicker, but not an ounce of it showed on his forever stoic face.

"Don't, uh, take this the wrong way and... like, stuff..." He started, growing increasingly both nervous and irritated as the creepy old khajiit just kept on staring at him with his sunken eyes, "and I mean no offense... but if you can't help me do laundry, then..."

Dough-Boy threw his arms out, gesturing to the entire ship around him. Then he huffed, hanging his head low. "You know what? Never mind. I don't know why I try."

"Dar'Jzo did not say he will not. Dar'Jzo will, but now he cannot. Only when the time is right."

The young man leaned in curiously, as if trying to decipher some kind of hidden meaning behind the elder's words. When the time was right? What could that possibly mean? Was... was he testing him? What if this entire time, this mysterious stranger was... maybe he was secretly a monk or something? Silly, yes, but... what if it was true? What if he was on some kind of nomad on a spiritual journey? Could he... could he train him? Be his master? Help him perfect the art of an ancient hand to hand combat style? Antii and Fjuhl wouldn't see that coming. He must know!

Dough-Boy leaned in closer, his voice hushed as he asked, "What do you mean when the time is right?"

"After this storm comes to pass." Dar'Jzo replied, deadpan as always.

Dough-Boy looked around the ocean skies. It was clearly blue as far as the eyes could see. He looked back at the khajiit and asked again, "What storm?"

Dar'Jzo did not answer, only staring ahead - almost through Dough-Boy with the same grim expression. His brows casted shadows over his bagged eyes, and the breeze whistled through the tribal-looking beads adorning his dreaded black beard and dreaded black mane, only intensifying the mystical aura which seemed to surround him. Then, for a split second, his face moved. His eyes widened, ever so slightly - then he bowed his head and hunkered over the laundry basket without warning, depositing even more vomit on top of the clothes than there was originally. The cat didn't even spray it or anything! He just bent over and, gosh, it just fell out of his mouth! Dar'Jzo returned to his original position, his expression finally taken over by one of weariness and nausea as his brows hung low. Some leftover bile collected in a small patch of fur underneath his bottom lip.

Dough-Boy reeled back the moment it had occurred and watched with horror as Dar'Jzo contributed to the disgusting mess that had to be cleaned up. His face was replaced by a look of disappointment as the old cat single-handedly crushed his daydreams with a swing of his neck and a handful of cat barf. Of course. He should have expected something like this. He took a deep sigh and shook his head, now in understanding why Dar'Jzo was telling him why he couldn't help him. He waved a dismissive hand at the new-blood and said, "You know what? Don't worry about it. I'll take care of this. Just see if you can't find some ginger for yourself."

"Dar'Jzo is fine." He lied. "He does not need the ginger."

He could about feel himself reeling. His chest heaved for a brief second, but he was able to keep it down. Nearby, a much shorter woman watched with a long drawn-out sigh. Her green and brown fur and leather robes indicative of her status as the company's one and only priestess. She had to admit that she felt indifferent toward the few of the crew who had not yet found their sea legs when she thought she should have been feeling more empathetic. Curious how some people would seem to pray more often while on a boat than when nursing whatever wounds they had. Her magic and healing ability was the real reason these people came to her. They weren't looking for someone to tend to their crises of faith like Ashav said they might. They were less willing to confront the wounds in their faith than in the wounds in their bodies.

Let the actual "medic" deal with their upset stomachs. She wasn't going to waste any time on ills mundane.

Wylendriel shook her head and kept on walking, make her way around the boat, watching the deckhands and the mercenaries hard at work. She was supposed to be keeping an eye on them and making sure they were in good and stable health. Perhaps she should be looking inward toward her own turmoil, but she buried it deep like she did many things. She hadn't felt the same since they left Dawnstar - ever since Tzinasha's death. It weighed heavily on her mind, and on her heart, but probably not for the reason it should. The dunmer assassin they captured ultimately decided that killing herself was preferable to giving up information... no, that wasn't it. That wasn't the fact that was bothering her. It was that she took the coward's way out. It was that she stole her opportunity to get back at her. She stole the life of her friend and stole her opportunity for revenge. She stole from her.

The priestess' fists clenched and slowly, she tried to control her breathing.

This wasn't right. Whatever this is that's happening to her, it isn't right. She has to get herself in order before she loses her self-control. She just hoped that there were places in High Rock where should could continue her pilgrimage. Surely the bretons had a chapel to at least one of the Nine... or one of the gods from her own people's Pantheon - she wasn't sure if it hardly even mattered who she prayed to anymore. Her thoughts returned to the moment she had signed herself up for Ashav's company. Part of her wished that she was more upfront with what she wanted from him. If she could've gotten him to agree, then he'd be beholden to his word.

By Y'ffre's hairy feet, she wish she had a pact-hostage in him right about now.

No. No, actually, she wished she had a way to bleed this feeling of anger out. No matter what she did, she felt like she was trapped inside her own head.

Gods, this was going to be a long trip.

Vivid Recollections: Into the World Unknown (Season 1 COMPLETE)

Well this isn't turning out quite like I expected. Penny somehow managed to target three of Andrea's pet issues in the same breath without even realizing it.

Vivid Recollections: Into the World Unknown (Season 1 COMPLETE)

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Grand Ridge - Conference Room
_{@Surtr Inc@Atrophy}

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Not to sell everyone else short, but Andrea really didn't expect her little speech to go as well as it did. Sure, she hoped that people would listen to reason. She liked to believe in the best of people and that one level head in an massive argument can go a long way – but damn was the tension high, and she wasn't holding her breath for anything. First was the asian boy whose name she didn't know, then Britney, Claire seemed like, well, Claire, then the hipster girl, and then the loud mouthed kid that started escalating the situation in the first place. Penny looked like she was just stewing in self righteous anger or something. A few of the other students participants that were quiet just went on ahead to progress the conversation, and Britney was more than happy to oblige them.

Granted, she felt a little frustrated because she was still in the dark, but at least everyone seemed to cool it a little bit. Still, it would've helped her help them if she understood what was happening. What they're talking about started sounding like a foreign language to her; a bunch of nonsense about “abstractions”, weird dreams, and some kind of journal featuring some dead person's handwriting. Using context clues, however, she could tell that the dead person was connected to their problems in one way or another. Whether they were a previous victim, present in their dreams – it was hard to tell, maybe the man was both. Regardless, it seemed to point some of these kids towards a very dangerous direction, and Claire had no issue with making her opposition loud and clear... but Andrea didn't have much time to think about it before Penny lost it.

Needless to say, there were a list of things in her dramatic tirade that started waving red flags in Andrea's head. Insults and barbs that made her feel like red-hot needles were pricking at her skin and closing in from all sides. The steady drumming of her heart against her chest escalated as she felt her head become light-headed. If she doesn't fall into an anxiety attack, then she was about to get very pissed. There weren't very many ways to go about doing that.

“...makes me want to put a bullet through my God damn head.”

“Nobody was expecting the town whore to step up from her fucking knees!”

“...putting what shit you do into your body, trying to, like, open your mind, man...”

If she were the target of these disgustingly incendiary jabs, she might have shut down, but she wasn't. Claire was, and in that moment, she knew more about those two women than she bargained for. Now she was pissed.

She was never really the type to get into yelling contests with other people whenever she got angry like some of the people here. No, she just made it very clear that she wasn't your friend. Perhaps most people wouldn't care, but she doesn't dare spare a single ounce of her boundless generosity with anyone like that. All she could really bring herself to do is stand between Claire and Penny. At first she looked at Claire with a knowing, sympathetic glance – no, empathetic, her eyes were welling with emotion as she hovered close in front of her. Then she turned that glance to face Penny with such a look of scorn that none of her friends would think possible (Britney has certainly never seen it).

“You need to leave. Now.” Was all she said, growling at her as she pointed to the door, not taking her eyes off of the other blonde. As far as she was concerned, nothing else needed to be said. Anything more would be redundant. Penny knew now that she wasn't welcomed here. She already got her licks in, and if she continued then she'd just be making a fool of herself. Andrea hoped she was reasonable enough to see that.

Maybe part of her wanted to show Claire that she had to be the better person here, even if it's hard. Even Andrea thought it was hard, since the idea of getting back at her was such an attractive option... but they had to prove that they were better people than her. That's all one can really do about people like that. Be the better person - even if your voice and your fists were trembling. Lord knows her body was shaking with barely controlled rage.

Vivid Recollections: Into the World Unknown (Season 1 COMPLETE)

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Grand Ridge - Conference Room @Surtr Inc@Atrophy@FernStone@Prosaic

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There was a lot going on that Andrea didn't understand, and she had sort of expected that going into this whole situation. She wasn't a part of the camping tragedy like the other students here, so she suspected some issues arising such as not being able to relate to their unique and collective struggle. She expected that maybe her being an implant or a foreigner to this state - and hell, country - would set her aside from the peer group of pre-acquainted individuals, outcasted and ostracized so to speak. She wasn't expecting talk of invisible tattoos and shared dreams, or a bat magically appearing out of thin air. She wasn't expecting superpowers. That's what a number of these kids were calling them. One of them even talked as though it were normal. What could possibly be normal about it?

Her own issues and trauma, despite how profoundly they affected her, suddenly felt very small in the grand scheme of things. Part of her thought she might be going crazy, maybe she relapsed doesn't remember, and now she's hallucinating. The only problem with that logic was that felt completely sober. She has managed to stayed sober for a very long time. Even though she knew that Britney was trying to keep the situation under control, she just wished that her friend would come out with it and explain to her what was really happening. Then the pretty blonde girl spoke up.

Andrea liked to think she was able to get a good read on people, but she didn't know what her problem was. The best thing she could guess was that she and Britney already had a tumultuous relationship with one another before this brouhaha even occurred. She called her a crony, said that Brit was playing favorites - and although Andrea knew that her criticisms were emotionally charged and weren't really based on a foundation of logic or reason, it hurt her. Her words stung and they made her want to clam up and she didn't even know her.

This whole thing was her idea in the first place and it backfired terribly! It was her fault, and... gosh, she didn't even know her. She didn't even know her...

Andrea steeled her nerves and her resolve, stepping in between Britney and Penny, looking at the the latter with a pained expression on her face.

"Uh, miss? I'm sorry, but... you don't even know me." She scolded, her voice slightly trembling in her Polish accent. She looked around the room, "None of you know me, and I'm sorry that I did not make a proper introduction. To start, my name isn't crony."

She stabbed a glance at Penny and said, "Its Andrea, and it was my idea to get you all together in the first place. I wasn't there when the tragedy happened. That's why Britney was talking to me and trying to help me understand. Are you satisfied?"

With that biting remark out of the way, she continued to everyone else, "This is the first time I've been asked to help in facilitating a group, but it isn't my first time in counseling. I've visited counselors and groups like these for a long time. We're in all in college now. We're all adults now. We can be civil. Some of you might not agree with each other, but there's nothing wrong with that. All of you came here because maybe you either wanted to heal or feel like you weren't alone. You shared a struggle together, find unity in that if nothing else. We're all responsible for our own healing. I don't understand what's going on, but it isn't too late to restart. Maybe we can begin by apologizing and then everyone can work together to get me up to speed - from the beginning."

Vivid Recollections: Into the World Unknown (Season 1 COMPLETE)

Sorry for the delay y'all. Now get ready for some normal fucking people doing normal fucking shit.

Vivid Recollections: Into the World Unknown (Season 1 COMPLETE)

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Grand Ridge - Conference Room [@fuck all everybody in the room, I don't give a shit]

---

Britney was the one who invited her to this meeting in the first place. Andrea suggested that perhaps she shouldn't, since she wasn't involved in that very emotionally-charged event, but her friend was persistent that she joined them. Britney was a confident woman, but perhaps she wasn't as confident as she portrays herself as. Andrea had implied that she had experience in participating in groups like these, so maybe her friend was low-key relying on that experience to guide them through this process as painlessly as possible. Perhaps she thought that it was because she wasn't there that she was the best one with the clearest head to help these people out.

Part of Andrea wondered if this was just one big prank being pulled on her for being foreign and so trusting.

First she heard someone talking about their weird new neck tattoo – they stretched their neck out and pointed at it, and nothing was there. Someone mentioned their own new tattoo that they don't remember getting and rolled up their sleeve. Nothing there. This continued on for a while with different parts of different people's bodies, and then they started talking about dreams and nightmares. They were talking about how they apparently all had the same dreams. Such things may not be uncommon when multiple people suffer an extremely traumatic event together, but their conversations were getting oddly specific. Then someone else in the crowd, someone named Billy, starts dismissing all of it like one big joke. She felt her chest getting tighter.

Then Britney starts whispering, telling her about strange happenings unique to this town. Then she asks her if she believes in magic. Andrea looked at her, her eyes slightly red and watering, staring daggers into her own.

“I don't appreciate being made a fool.” She managed to choke out. “If you wanted to--”

Then suddenly a bat randomly flew out of one student's notebook and into another student's face.

“--Ah!” She shrieked. She jumped back, pinning herself against the wall in front of the classroom, her hair brushing against the chalkboard. Now she forgot all about the sense of betrayal and the pain that came with it. She was breathing heavy, her chest heaving, and her eyes were open wide like full moons. She turned to Britney, like she was expecting some sort of explanation.

“Wh-what? What was that?!”

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

I know what y'all are thinking: "Oh great. He has another character."

This is just an incomplete something that I made for fun a while back when I was thinking of joining one of Dervish's games if it ever opened (spoilers: it didn't), which is why the format is a little different from this one. I almost used him for this one, but decided against it. I'm just sharing it publicly for funsies and so I could waste everyone's time. Try to enjoy!

Calen Mirthwood

Calen Mirthwood

<sub>Male Nord | 23 | The Lover | Solitude, Skyrim

(Listen to some bardly music to accompany you on this journey!)</sub>

Appearance

Equipment

A wooden cudgel that is carved with traditional Nordic decorations, and is only slightly stained with a little bit of blood. It hangs at his side by a loop from his belt.

An enchanted Amulet of Dibella that fortifies his Speechcraft, making him even more likable than before!

A simple set of durable and warm clothes that actually don't look too shabby on him. A fur-lined leather broad belt is the best he has for means of protection, and even then, it's probably better used as a belly warmer.

A gut hooked skinning knife is sheathed right where his tail-bone is at, where his back meets his ass, but he's more likely to use it as his primary eating utensil than anything else that's practical beyond that.

Misc. Possessions

A pouch of 270 septims.

A key to the trunk in his wagon.

While not on his person, per se, he is in possession of a reasonable carriage wagon and a driving pony to pull it along the road. It contains most of his belongings that he can't afford to hold onto his person, and while neither the wagon nor pony is large enough to carry an entire party, it fulfills its purpose in carrying just himself and a few other people. What it can do is at least lift some of the burden off of a traveling company. Within the wagon lies a trunk where most his belongings reside:

A weathered-looking lute that has seen its fair share of use, but still has plenty of songs left in its lifespan.

A small drum that one could easily carry under their arm without getting tired.

A violin that's nearly as aged as the lute, adorned with decorations similar to what's on his cudgel, and a bow to play it with.

A personal, leather-bound scrapbook recounting of almost all the people he has come across in his travels. Just pages and pages devoted to their sketched faces, their names, and what kind of impact they've left of him. Of course he couldn't get all of them - but he certainly got all of his customers. Most importantly though, what this journal does manage to get all of are each and every single one of his lovers and love interests throughout his life. Their faces are drawn with meticulous detail and are accompanied by passages which recounts their finest qualities and the experiences he's shared with them.

Two tall bottles of spiced wine, home-brewed back in Solitude. One of them is already halfway finished.

A sack of preserved or readily available foods, such as stag jerky, cheese, snowberries, and edible roots.

A small brown medicine bottle that is filled with delightfully pungent herbal oils with a hint of sweetness to its aroma. It is labeled as "Khenarthi's Breath".

A small tent that is simple in it's construction. Calen typically just pitches it to all four corners of his wagon and sleeps where he works. It comes with a thick, woolen blanket that keeps him warm at night.

Soap made from flowers and horker fat.

Spare clothes that are similar to one another in their style and design.

A collection of books, many of which are related to history in one way or another, about art and poetry, foreign culture, and what looks to be a religious tome that tells you everything you'd like to know about Dibella's doctrines.

Family and Associations

Gungir Mirthwood, Father; Alive

Mira Mirthwood, Mother; Alive

Bard's College, Organization; Member in good standing.

Temple of Dibella, Organization; Patron

Favored Skills

Highly Proficient: Speechcraft – (He's a picker. He's a grinner. He's a lover and he's a sinner. You thought you had it going on back in school? Well, Calen went to the Bard's College in Solitude, and that place taught him everything he knows from history and languages to singing and performing. Ladies, don't let his age fool you - what he makes up for experience? Raw talent and endless energy. Bastard could charm the loincloth off of a giant with his silver tongue... because, you know... he's good at Speechcraft.)

Moderately Proficient: Mercantile – (There's not much difference between making love and the art of the deal besides the fact you're trying to make money while you're at it, so there's only a little bit more lying than normal. But you know what? Calen got pretty good at it. He has a pretty good gig going on with his carriage business, so he had to get good at it.)

Moderately Proficient: Acrobatics – (Working with horses for most of his life has made him a rather able-bodied equestrian. See, it's all about keeping your balance, and if you fall then you try to fall as painlessly as possible. Pain (or the threat of pain) is a great motivator, just take it from Calen.)

Moderately Proficient: Athletics – (For bolting in the opposite direction when everything has gotten abso-fucking-lutely haywire. Years of hard farm labor, being on the road, and running from dangerous fathers (and a variety of other folk) has made Calen one hell of a speedy son-of-a-bitch. His cardio was worked out enough that he can run quickly across distances without being winded, which has done wonders for helping him to keep his asthma under control despite the issues it has caused for him to get to that point.)

Somewhat Proficient: One-Handed (Blunt) - (Calen carries a cudgel with him everywhere just in case his next customer is the kind that gets a little too handsy (like an orc trying to wrap their hands around his throat), or if his wagon comes across some vagabonds along the way to his destination. With a girly yelp and a shriek for help, he takes it and smacks it right across his assailant's kisser. And I'll tell you what: he's become quite accustomed to that entire routine. He's gotten pretty good at it.)

Somewhat Proficient: Restoration – (A priestess of Dibella showed Calen additional generosity on top of her usual services by teaching him a bit of restoration magic that can help him deal with his asthma. His hands start glowing with a radiant light, he cups them around his face, and he takes a huge breath in. One can even see the light running through his neck. Coincidentally, that was only one of the two lessons he received that night.)

Somewhat Proficient: Illusion – (He learned a bit of magic from some other bards at the college, as every bard needs to know how to escape a particularly tough crowd. For those occasions when he quickly needs to be somewhere, like, yesterday.)

Spells

Somewhat Proficient: Restoraton

Healing: He can heal himself at a steady rate as long as he concentrates - good for asthma too. Fond memories come to mind every time.

Healing Hands: As it happens, the healing that Calen uses for his asthma can be used to help others too, as long as he concentrates. Whether or not people want his healing hands after they learn where he got 'em from is up to them.

Fortify Luck: After a fool's prayer and a kiss on his necklace, Calen jumps into action with the highest of hopes that he doesn't freaking die. His prayer as it goes: "Under her skirt and into the bum, watch out Nirn, here I come."

Somewhat Proficient: Illusion

Clairvoyance: For as long as Calen concentrates on his destination, he has intuitive sense of direction and cannot lose his way. What? You think he ran his carriage business on his survival skills? Oh honey, bless your heart.

Muffle: For as long as Calen concentrates, he doesn't make any noise. Which is something a lot of people probably wished he did more often, but he'd rather use it to get his ass out of danger.

Calm: Calen can touch somebody and reduce their aggression for a short period of 30 seconds. Of course he knows this spell. Why wouldn't he? With the number of angry fathers he's had running after him, this spell has probably saved his life more times than he can count.

Courage: Calen can touch somebody and make them braver and steel their resolve for a short period of 30 seconds. Read again: somebody else. Not him, heavens no. He's going the other way.

History

Are you looking for a sob story, my friend? A grand ole tale o' tragedy, a misty-eyed epic of redemption and a hero hurling themselves at impossible obstacles? An Iliad recounting the moral quandary of man?

You poor son of a bitch.

Nothing personal intended, I actually find the lady to be quite delightful, but I am getting ahead of myself. Year 4E185 - a beautiful baby boy was born in Skyrim. The boy didn't know of the great things in store for him as he was still at his mother's breast, but his humble beginnings would serve him well in the future. Born and raised to two ranchers who worked and lived at a stable house just south of Solitude, raising and selling horses. His mother was indisputably much better at it, since Mira was a tried and tested rancher like her father before her. His dad, Gungir, was a farmer. He was better at making potatoes and onions grow than he was breaking in and taking care of a horse (but guess what makes more money).

Calen would learn how to help his family complete their chores and fulfill their responsibilities whether it was shoveling shit or breaking in the horses for the next buyer that was too much of a pansy ass to do the work themselves. Then he also had to deal with all manner of nasty critters going bump in the night that liked to prey on the foals, likes wolves and coyotes. Usually waving a torch around was enough to scare 'em off, but if that didn't work, a good old club to the snout always got the message across.

It was also moments like that which seemed to present a huge problem with Calen's health. Aside from not being the bravest fellow you've ever layed your eyes on (read: he's pretty cowardly), it presented an issue with his asthma. Now his parents were good-natured folk, if a bit rustic in their ways. They believed that what didn't kill you made you stronger, so when the first asthma attack came around and didn't take him out right from the get-go, that looked to them like a sure sign that Calen was gonna survive the ones that came after, too. Despite their philosophy, the boy was awfully fond of being able to breathe. They only found a solution to the problem after a khajiit caravan passed through, and one of the merchants was able to recognize the symptoms. He presented Calen with a traditional medicine to alleviate his symptoms, made of a moon sugar solution that was heavily diluted with lavender and blue mountain flower oils. Dabbing the solution just inside his nostrils and taking a deep breath allowed the fumes to work inside his windpipe and lungs and relaxed the muscles, clearing his airways.

His parents always tried to steer him right. You work and live honest, and things would typically treat you in kind. As long as you weren't ashamed of hard and dirty labor, there was very little keeping you from getting what you wanted. It usually held true for people as well. As long as you do no wrong by your neighbor, your neighbor will have no reason to do wrong by you. His mama always told him, "Don't go around treating women like trash. Treat 'em with respect. Treat a lady like a queen and you ain't ever gonna lose her."

Momma wasn't gonna raise no heart breaker.

It's easy to see how he became to be an able equestrian, as he not only had to learn how to ride, but how to teach horses how to be ridden. They were basically giant dumb dogs who had to learn what the cues were, except dogs didn't weigh nearly a ton or have deadly clubs attached to the ends of their feet. Calen's favorite of them all must have been their working horse, a massive draught named Edna, if for not other reason than her sweet temperament and didn't get spooked by a thrice-damned LEAF rolling across the cobblestone (we're looking at you, Danish). Danish was a prime example of why ponies are the worst of animals: spooked by everything, dumb as bricks, and was only good as a towing beast of burden or carrying children on his back - and that was if you didn't care if the kid got bucked off.

Of his responsibilities to his family's stable, he'd much prefer having to walk up the hill to Solitude and carry back heavy sacks of grain. As much of a pain in the ass the labor was, it meant that Calen got to see the city and its sights, listen to the hustle and bustle of the market, smell and try the delicious fruits, and listen to a bard make sweet, sweet music. Music was a wonderful thing, it was heaven against his ears. He'd toss a coin into the bard's hat laying on the ground before him, thank him for the tunes, and get on with carrying heavy sacks of grain to the wagon just outside the gate. If he was lucky, Danish wouldn't spook at the sound of the gates opening and closing and run all the way back to the stable and make him carry the grain back.

To be fair, it was only a matter of time that Calen decided that he was getting tired of shoveling shit, hard labor, and training horses was like herding cats. He made a heartfelt plea to his family to help him go to Solitude and learn at the Bard's College. At first they laughed. A child running off from life to become a bard was almost stereotypical, as if strumming a lute, beating a drum, or singing songs was ever going to get him anywhere. Then they realized that Calen was dead serious and they fixed their tone right up. So they scrounged up what they could, setting some money aside when they could, and on Calen's sweet 16, they surprised him by sending him on his way to learn the bard's craft.

When he arrived, he was greeted by a motley crew of bards and students from all walks of life, a variety of pungent smells where not all were good, and a cascade of music - where some of the chords being played were shrill and agonizing to the ears. It was at that point he realized: oh yeah. People come here to learn. Still, he'd suffer through these few and minor grievances if it meant following his heart and getting to live in the lovely city of Solitude every day, and was only a short jog away from visiting home. That was the same year when Ulfric Stormcloak came to Solitude, killed the High King of Skyrim, and dragons returned to the world. Honestly, shit started looking pretty bleak straight from the beginning.

The chaos and paranoia that followed afterward was almost suffocating. People have never been so afraid, Jarl Elisif was virtually incompetent, and Calen nearly found himself swept up in the confusion and anger had it not been for the Headmaster of the Bard's College, Viarmo. He reminded everyone to keep a level head. He said, "It is times like these where we are most needed. When the world appears to be on a sinking ship, we're there to remind them that we are close to shore. Though the waters are cold, the sand is warm and the timber is strong. We build a new ship and we keep on sailing with the wind at our backs... because that is what we do. That is what we have always done, and that won't end tomorrow."

Viarmo has proven his ability to lead, and he made sure to remind others to not involve themselves in politics too much. He often says, almost as if it was scripted, that "good tales deal with the issues of the day, but a wise bard remains a neutral observer." It was a lesson that Calen took to heart, and he had begun to learn that being a bard meant much more than just singing and playing instruments. By joining the College, he learned that it meant he was also a chronicler and a scholar. It turned people into leaders and historians without them even realizing it by presenting these subjects within a whimsical framework, which was really quite ingenious, and Calen found himself loving the College even more.

Activities within the College has done much and brought him to more places than he could ever imagine. Some of the bards knew a little bit of magic, mostly in the school of Illusion as it brought a bit of flare to their performances, but everyone knew that sometimes there's was always that one heckler that proved to be too much. Calen learned about that part of a bard's life after a rough night in the local tavern. So on top of the vocal lessons, learning the lute, drum, violin, art, and history, he decided that learning a little bit of Illusion magic wasn't such a bad idea if he wanted to avoid his next black eye.

During his time in the College has also made him rather cheeky and self-assured, and somehow developed the habit of falling in love at first sight with most of the women he met.. This acquired panache curried favor with many of local girls his age, and some women even older, but less so with the favor of these ladies' fathers who just as frequently chased him down the streets with every intention of wringing the boy's neck. Despite his newfound reputation as a shameless womanizer, he always stuck by his mother's advice. Every lady that has come his way, he has treated with the upmost respect, dignity, and (for the most part) honesty. Well, emotional honesty shall we say. He wasn't above spinning a few tall tales to try impressing a girl that he had his eye on, but every lover and paramour on his life he has treated as though he had found a pile of treasure and nothing less. As long as he remained emotionally honest and upfront with his interests, and didn't take any shame in his polyamory. If a love interest didn't reciprocate or wasn't comfortable with it, he backed off and didn't press the matter - valuing their friendship just as much as he would have their love. He made sure to never forget their names.

Over the course of 6 years studying the bard's arts with the College, Calen finally graduated at the age of 21. Countless songs had been song, tales spun, and epic poems told about the Dragonborn who had stopped the coming of dragons and ended the Civil War. Despite the legendary tales of yesterday and their extraordinary accomplishments, they were already recorded and Calen had already learned them all. His years of study and practice taught him that there was history being made out there, right now. He knew he belonged out there, witnessing history and enjoying life along the way. He also knew that if he wanted to survive, he wasn't going to just walk on the roads by foot and rely on the charity of strangers. No, he had a different idea in mind.

Calen returned home to proud and happy parents, pleased at how grown up and handsome their son has become, who loved to listen to him play and sing. He wanted to ask them for one more favor: he wanted to borrow Edna. Explaining why, he said that he wanted to start a carriage business so that he could see more of Skyrim, more of its people, and still make enough money in the process to support himself. While they normally would've been more than happy to oblige, the only problem was that Edna was their only work horse left, and couldn't afford to spare her.

"Well then, any of the riding horses would do." Calen said.

"We have our own business to run." His mom said. "You're an adult now conducting adult business, right? if I just give you a horse for free, that would put your father and I thousands of septims in the hole between the time and resources it takes to raise and train them."

Calen knew that he couldn't afford any of the horses his parents worked with, even at discount. He sighed in frustration and said, "Fine, fine, I get it. What can you spare, then?"

Both his mother and his father, wordlessly, turned and stared toward one small corner in the stable. Calen followed their stare right into the stupid little eyes of the daedra spawn himself - Danish.

"No." Calen immediately refused. "No, you can't be serious. That stupid pony?"

"You asked." His mother replied.

"Danish has gotten older too, but he's still plenty strong enough to pull a wagon full of wheat and hay bales." His father pitched in. "14 hands, decent weight - you could still sit on his back if you wanted. Still a little spooky, though not nearly as much a handful as he once was."

Calen looked into Danish's eyes and Danish stared right back. There was no skeever's chance in Oblivion this was gonna end in anyhting other than a total disaster.

But because Danish is a pony determined to make an embarrassment of everything that Calen believed in, the young bard ended up eating his words as this line of work seemed to be quite compatible with him. They ended up building a short wagon that was low to the ground and had great, large wheels so that the wagon wasn't too heavy and it had a lot of traction on the ground. The front of the wagon had a tall, flat-topped chest that Calen could keep his belongings and use as his seat where he can drive Danish, while along sides had benches that were basically rectangular logs bolted to the bottom and connected to the framework of the wagon.

For the next two years following that moment, the young bard hit the open road and familiarized himself with the sights and sounds of Skyrim's landscape, picking up travelers along the way for a bit of coin. There was an additional, minute fee upon request if anyone wanted him to sing or perform during their travels. The number of interesting people he has come across in this time were countless, and almost every one of them he has had time to chit-chat and converse with as they traveled across the far-reaching landscapes. He learned their stories, what these people did, who they were related to; the longer he ran this business, the more he seemed to understand how connected everyone was. Granted, not everyone he came across were the polite sort. The number of times he was forced to whip Danish into high gear or to resort to a good old fashioned surprise bludgeoning was enough to make him rather cautious, but on the other hand, now he knows which routes to avoid. Some valleys are practically begging you to get yourself killed.

Some people were rarities, those who came through once and were never heard from again, and those people usually had the most interesting stories. On the rarest of occasions, he would meet people or witness events that he'd make sure to write down and immortalize their deeds in song. One such example was a dunmer who Calen was taking from Riften to Windhelm after Morrowind was taken by the Argonians. The dunmer only said that he was going there so that he can protect what was left of his friends and family. The passenger turned out to be a former Ordinator, a fact that was only revealed after they were ambushed by group of bandits who all must've thought the wagon would be an easy target, and the passenger expertly dispatched the entire raiding party with minimal effort - and then tipped Calen some extra septims for the inconvenience.

To the bard's credit, he did manage to get a lick in with his cudgel. Right on the old dome piece, which got to dazing the bandit long enough for the Ordinator to finish the job.

But one of his most memorable patrons was one of his earliest. He took a ravishing Priestess of Dibella - Illia was her name - from Dragon Bridge and returned her home to Markarth. With this being his first time to Markarth, he decided to shift his pony into park and walk in through the front gates with his customer and had her show him her temple. If any of you know of what Dibella is the goddess of and what her priestesses do, then you know he was in for a very important lesson. And... well... it was quite easy to tell that he enjoyed the lesson, because then his asthma started acting up. Badly. Really badly. Right in the middle of their... um, session, and he was in a bit of a pickle because his dumb ass left his medicine in the trunk of his carriage back by the stables outside the gates. In that brief moment of panic, Illia cupped her hands around his face as they began to glow and calmly told him to take a deep breath. Calen followed her directions to the letter, and within moments, he felt his airways opening up again. Wanting to show the fullest extent of his gratitude, he eagerly jumped back into his lesson.

When dawn broke the next day, Calen lingered a little longer than he normally would've. He didn't want to cheapen the priestess' favor with only a night of pleasantries, and wished to show his gratitude by asking one more favor: to teach him just enough Restoration magic, not only so that he can take care of himself better in the future, so that there was something from Illia that he could carry with him and remember her by. The priestess just smiled sweetly and kissed him on the cheek. She said to him, "Restoration magic is something that I believe everyone should know anyway. If you want a memento, I can think of something much better."

Anyways, she obliged to his request and spent the remainder of that day showing him the fundamentals of basic Restoration magic. She proved to be an exceptional teacher in more ways than one, as her knowledge of this particular school of magic was such that she could explain it in the simplest of terms that made it easily digestible for Calen. It was nearly midnight, a full day of what felt like non-stop practice, but by the end of it he was able to summon the same warm glow around his hands as Illia. Well maybe not the same. Hers was much brighter, but that was to be expected.

Before Calen left, the priestess presented to him a parting gift: a beaded amulet of Dibella with leaf-like accessories along the necklace until they met at the flowery centerpiece of Dibella's symbol.

"This is something that you can remember me by." She said before sharing a farewell kiss with the bard, then pushing him out the door. The cold Skyrim air did little to disturb his awed trance as he kept staring at the amulet. Never before has any of his previous flings had such magnitude - just like that, Illia was able to turn Calen into a holy man overnight. After a few moments of mere silence, his expression broke into a boyish smile. He kissed the amulet in his hand and said with glee, "Under her skirt and into the bum, watch out Nirn, here I come."

From that point on, he was never seen without his amulet. He wore it for the largest majority of his time running his carriage. He read the books, learned the texts, her verses and commandments, and what it meant to follow the Blessed Lady to find that her teachings on beauty and love fell in line with his own beliefs. Perhaps Illia was able to see that. He also got a lot of mileage out of the Restoration magic that she taught him, because after all, on top of all the bandits and highwaymen just looking for easy pickings on the open road, Skyrim's dangerous wilderness can just be downright frightening sometimes.

Things recently hasn't changed much from how they were before. Calen is more experienced than he was before, has been running this gig for about two years now, so he's gotten pretty familiar with his country by now. He has something of a cult following when compared to other carriages, even if his cart is a little small, not covered, and only pulled by a pony 14 hands high. But he's got a very recognizable face and has a unique business gimmick in also being a bard that makes otherwise long, boring trips a lot more pleasurable. He also makes a point in getting to know each of his passengers on a personal level, so he's a lot more likable. His latest passenger was a lady looking for a ride back home to Falkreath, and Calen was smitten by her. Long, wavy brown hair, piercing green eyes, a soft and sweet expression - and she was making it difficult for him! Toying and teasing with him, even! Wouldn't even tell her his name. So as he was rolling into Falkreath, he had to take it to the next level.

"There I was, between the biggest all-Nordic, Talos-loving bastard you've never seen and this Thalmor inquisitor, trying my best to calm the situation. Big guy is losing it, but I'm holding it steady as she goes. I face the Thalmor and I speak to him in perfect Altmeri about how the other guy is my uncle Gungir, and how he survived a cannonball to the head and was never the same since. Thalmor guy is so impressed by my Altmeri that he just left without any further trouble."

"Wow..." Bemused the girl, trying to process what Calen just told her. She decided to roll with it, "I didn't know you could speak perfect Altmeri."

"Yeah, well, you know..." Calen started, trying to play it off like nothing. "Like any other elven language, it's practically derivative of Ayleidoon."

Was it Ayleid? Or was it Aldmeri?

"Oh? Ayleid?"

"Oh yeah. It especially came in handy when I went delving into this deep dwemer ruin and had to decipher the ancient texts to procure a centurion... dynamic core."

"You don't say?" She replied. "You wouldn't happen to have it with you, would you?"

"Oh Gods, no. Something that valuable is safe and sound back home!" Calen proclaimed as the wagon rolled to a stop. The lady hopped out the back and flashed Calen a smile.

"Well, if you happen to go back and decide to bring it with you, you know where to find me in case you'd like to prove it. The name's Freya."

Calen dipped his head toward her and gave her his most charming smile as he watched her saunter home. As soon as she closed the door behind, the bard scrambled out of the wagon and hurried into the tavern that was just only next door. As soon as he was in, he leaned against the bar table and was practically whispering to the innkeep who was trying to be busy polishing his mugs.

"Hey, you wouldn't happen to know of any dwemer ruins nearby, would you?"

"Well as it happens, there's this rumor of this imperial woman running a dig over west. Rhea Valerius, was it? Might be worth checking out. Though you don't look like the type to be--"

"Thank you sir, it means a lot!"

Slapping down ten or so septim coins on the table, Calen rushed back out the door, hopped onto his wagon and started heading westward.

Personality

Had it not been apparent by this point, Calen is a creature of impulse, whimsy, and ardor, and the bitterest pessimist's worst and most vexacious enemy. His casual, optimistic, cheerful disposition and lust for life is typically the first thing people notice about him if it isn't his lust for other people. He embodies the bardic spirit, wishing to experience what life has to offer him, to explore the world, to witness history first-hand, and somehow find a silver lining in every nook and cranny that he can. He truly believes that the world is a good place, or at least it can be, just as long as everyone put an effort into making it so.. and the first step in that is to stop and observe the beauty that already exists. How the pearl-like clouds migrate across the ocean-blue skies, the trees and flowers sinking their roots into the soil and bathing beneath the sunlight, or even the awesome stampede of storm clouds and how their rumbling and roaring thunder cracks as lightning whips Nirn in a divine flash of primal energy. How beauty is present even in the mundane, such as a wagon wheel, where mathematics and art can come together to create a tool which is as wondrous as it is taken for granted.

Perhaps it's easy to look past Calen's wonder and conviviality once people realize that that he's a shameless hedonist who's not afraid to admit it (he's more likely to correct you that hedonism encompasses all earthly pleasures, not just sex), and he's not the type to try to change other people's minds once they're explicitly set on something anyways. After all, his womanizing could easily be the most defining trait of his reputation and his impulsiveness only cements the image of him in others' minds as a fool who falls in and out of love as easily as a fish drinks water. It's just as easy to forget to give him credit where credit is due, for as far as he's concerned, monogamy and faithfulness are not mutually exclusive. Each and every lover or love-interest he treats and thinks back on with only the fondest and sweetest form of respect, and one relationship with one person doesn't necessarily means it overrides a relationship with another. The mere idea of putting a limit on love of all things seems to him to be one of the most oppressive forces on Nirn, which also happens to be a reflection of his Dibellan faith.

That doesn't mean he parted with every one of his previous partners on the best of terms though, even if Calen refuses to speak ill of them. He has a few cardinal rules, and one of them is to not take advantage of anyone's affection or trust. While he tries to be as upfront with his intentions as possible, occasionally even going as far as turning down the pursuit of a particular partner should they not feel comfortable with polyamory, they either don't always get across in translation or be made clear enough. This caused one or two heartbreaks in his time, much to the breaking of Calen's own heart, who never wished to make anyone feel hurt or as though they've been betrayed. More than just people who are dear to him, they're also reminders that he is still a foolish young man who is still lacking in wisdom and is too quick to get caught up in the heat of the moment.

Though forgetful at times, there are certain areas of his mind that are like iron-clad traps. Despite the stupidity of yesteryear, all of his past relationships are precious memories of his and that is where the opprobrium of his critics fall short. He remembers their names and their faces vividly because each one of them has contributed something special to his life, so he will continue to love them and their memory long into the future. Neither were all of his relationships romantic or sexual in nature; he treats his friendships with the same amount of ginger and intimate care as he does his romantic entanglements. One of Dibella's doctrines is that love knows no boundaries. He sees love in two friends sharing a bottle of mead just as much as he sees it in sex, so the medium to him doesn't matter. The form in which love takes - whether it's platonic or otherwise - has no bearing on that love's value.

This left-field perspective might make Calen appear as either a sanctimonious dog attempting to rationalize his lecherous behavior (which could be just as likely) or make him out to be wise beyond his years, and make no mistake, he's not. He's a bona fide fool. He went to school and studied a lot, so sure, he's intelligent and can be a diligent study - but he's a fool. He doesn't think before he acts, and he's not considered cunning because the answers don't always come to him very quickly. He's lucky to be alive, if anything. He hasn't survived the wilderness because of his resourcefulness or because of his martial and magical skill, so the only answer left is that the Divines apparently favor fools. Maybe it's because it's amusing to watch the bewilderment of all the capable adventurers who were the skin of their fingertips away from certain death.

Which goes to say that the bard isn't without his flaws. One that might've been driven home by now is that he's short-sighted and doesn't always think through his decisions, possibly leaving him in embarrassing or life-threatening situations. He also isn't much of a fighter for two reasons: firstly, he isn't necessarily pacifistic, but he would reaaaally rather avoid hurting others if he can help it. Ugly beasties? Sure, easily. A bandit that just tried to slit his throat? He'd bonk him on the head with his cudgel and ask if he was alright afterwards. Secondly, he's as cowardly as they come and is prone to panic whenever things go wrong. He'll do what he can to avoid a conflict in favor of carefully worded diplomacy, or if that doesn't work, delivering a witty jab or snide comeback since he has zero confidence in his ability to hold his own in a scrap, officially making him the worst Nord in Skyrim.

The only possible exception to this rule is if a loved one of his is in imminent danger, which puts his impulsive nature front and center in the position to have him do something incredibly reckless and stupid to try protecting them. Even if everyone would be better off if he doesn't butt in, because apparently his brain is hard-wired to his asshole, and he can't seem to stop trying to impress women even if he's digging a deeper hole for himself. His honesty seems to end with his emotions, since he seems to have no problem with spinning tall tales, exaggerating his skills and talents, or fabricating cockamamie farces for the very purpose of impressing love interests; though that could just as likely be derived from his inherent bardic desire to captivate and entertain, less so than to manipulate. Whether or not he realizes that's what it looks like he's doing is anybody's guess!

On the other hand, he can be quite easy to fool or manipulate himself, given his penchant to believe in the best of people.

Despite many of his shortcomings (and there are many), he still remains an incredibly friendly and kindhearted individual whose intentions are in the best of places even if they fall short in execution. He's as sharp as a tack, cultured, silver tongued, has a practiced singing voice, and is learned in history and in the practice of many different musical instruments and art forms, making him a creative force of nature. If you need someone to do the talking for you or to make friends in high places, Calen is the guy for the job. As a man who has lived with a foot in both worlds, he is capable of talking down nobles and peasantry alike and he has an inexplicable way with being a neutral voice in any sort of disagreement whether its in politics or religion.

Post Your Pikcha

The last thing you see before I cast a spell on you

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

This my man DJ!! Say what up!!

With a coat

Dar'Jzo

Male Khajiit | 57 | The Serpent

Profile

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§ Birthplace

Senchal, Pelletine (Elsweyr)

§ Appearance

Dar'Jzo was never good at first impressions. People often see the cat before they see the man, and Dar'Jzo is very much a proud cathay. He is covered head to toe in golden blonde fur and marked by subtle shadow striping across his body, and like a cathay, has a head shape that resemble a mountain lion. The face of which is gaunt, but not because he is skinny or malnourished - another look shows that he is quite good condition, if a bit slender and not powerfully built like a true warrior would be (he stands at about 5'10", weighs around 160 lbs) - but because of his age. True, while he may be in great condition for the number of years he has lived, time has taken its toll on the khajiit's body. His skin doesn't cling to his body as tightly as it once did, his claws have gotten a little brittle, and he has to remain active more often than most just to keep his muscle tone. His face is marred by more than just a few wrinkles, and he seems to have formed permanent bags underneath his eyes through a combination of age, countless sleepless nights, and chemical burns from irritating fumes that he was gradually exposed to when he was much younger.

It almost betrays the threatening quality of his presence. Almost.

There's a certain sharpness to him. How his brows hang low over his needle-like green eyes, or how the gauntness of his cheeks trace the faint outline of the array of sharp teeth hiding within his maw. His black mane is dreaded and adorned with a number of colorful, tribal beads and is wrapped up in a bun on top of his head. The long black fur on his chin is braided and similarly decorated with beads. Some patches of his fur is much shorter than the rest, indicating the many different scars he has earned through his life. His ears are short, with one of them shaped like a wide arrow while the other appears to have it's tip missing. He carries himself with poise, but it's not founded out of arrogance so much as it is confidence, subtle a difference though it may be. His face is forever stoic, stern, and serious, rarely breaking a smile that would dismiss the grim air his disposition stifles the atmosphere with.

His choice of wardrobe would make sense if he was still living in Senchal, but not so much in Skyrim. For starters, he doesn't wear a shirt. He just doesn't like to and not for any particular reason, but if he had to come up with one, it feels too constricting while he's pulling back his bowstring. He does though wear a black leather bandolier that goes across his chest and over one of his shoulders, and it looks something like a huge leather belt. With it, he carries a few pouches, bags, and a small pack. It is also this bandolier that he attaches his quiver of arrows to, from which Dar'Jzo hangs his bow.

The only actual garments of clothes he wears are loose-fitting, baggy, and breathable black linen pants which he secures to his person with a blood-red sash, and the bottom of his pants are tucked into black leather riding boots. While his fur would be enough to keep him warm for a short while in one of Skyrim's winters, it alone wouldn't protect him for long. During his time on board the ship that takes him from Senchal to Solitude, he was given a black wool long coat by one of the navy men should he be stuck in Skyrim for a while.

§ Personality

Dar'Jzo doesn't talk much, and because he doesn't talk much, it's kind of hard to tell why he doesn't talk much. It makes him somewhat of a mysterious individual to the people around him, since he seems to simply refuse talking about his life all that much. Every now and again he'll give you a blunt answer like, "I don't want to," or "I'm just an old hunter", but nobody really buys it because he just comes across as if you pressured him into giving you a half-assed answer just to shut you up. On the other hand, you have no choice but to take what you can get, because that was all he was willing to give you. A job or mission may require him to talk, and he will - he'll do whatever it takes without complaining - but he prefers spending his time watching others from a corner or spending some time to himself and meditating until the next job falls into his lap. Honestly, it's kind of creepy the way his smoldering stare just appraises everyone and everything. It's like he doesn't seem to trust anybody.

He is just as serious a cat as he seems. If he's going to get something done, he's going to get it done right. No fooling around, just business. He values hard work and being dutiful, and although he may not acknowledge it when he sees it, that is one of ways to earn his respect - though unspoken it may be. Indeed, he is one extremely jaded cat who has seen too much shit in his time, and though he may come across as unapproachable, that doesn't make him a despicable or foul individual. There is a paternal side to him that makes him protective of others who may be young or vulnerable, and he has a conscious that could quite possibly put him in danger if it meant serving the greater good. He doesn't waste time with making his enemies suffer, preferring instead to get the grisly deed done and over with. That being said, he doesn't close his eyes his to the suffering around him, and there is a delightful potential for cruelty within Dar'Jzo. If he doesn't need his enemy dead, then he's the type would do what it takes until he gets what does need.

Sometimes that cruelty is redirected on others, though not ever without reason. His temper is secure and it takes all of Oblivion for him to lose it and abandoned his cool demeanor, but once he does, he doesn't hold anything back. If you want to know what he thinks, you're going to know what he thinks. He won't sugar-coat anything, beat around the bush, or anything like that - he'll let you know the unadulterated truth and all of the harsh realty which surrounds it. He's not the type to apologize for it either, even if the world turns against him for it. He's old and stubborn and stuck in his ways like that. He's no enemy of reason, but hope that he finds your reasoning more reasonable than his own.

Even when strangers think they know Dar'Jzo, that they've finally gotten a bead on who he is as a person, they don't usually realize how far off they are. By now it's easy to conclude that he is a very private person. All of that privacy and alone time which he treasures so much actually hides a family man full of heart. His personality seems to flip around when he's near his friends and loved ones. His true friends. He might still be as quiet, but nowhere near as reclusive and shut off. He's involved and relaxed around them, and he cares oh so deeply for his family that he would go to the ends of the world in order to keep them safe and protected. Once witnessing that side of him, his coldness seems to make more sense when you realize he's weight down by responsibility and duty. He's only here because he has to, and any distractions could jeopardize everything he's worked so hard for. It's this epiphany that might make someone realize that he is just as much a person as anyone else and is plagued with his own insecurities.

For a long time, Dar'Jzo didn't know who he was or who he was supposed to be. What role he was supposed to play. He spent many years trying to formulate his identity, and for a while he got it right. Now, he's still not so sure, but at least he knows what his role in life his: a grandfather and the protector of his family. That's who he sees himself as at his core. He doesn't go out of his way to be unkind to others, he lends a helping hand when he's able, and he has some practical wisdom at his disposal that he's willing to give as long others ask him for it; he isn't the type to go around giving unsolicited advice. Just... don't expect him to hold up a conversation very well.

§ Background

The History of Dar'Jzo

Dar'Jzo was not always Dar'Jzo. Whether or not it was a crises of identity, he has gone through many names in his life. Some he has earned, but most were chosen for himself. His first was Kil before he earned his honorific, then Ja'kil in a fit of rebellion when he had finally come of age. S'kil when he fathered a daughter, thinking a mere name change could somehow change the person he was. Then Dro'kil when his daughter bore a child of her own, and he sought to shed the fur of the khajiit he used to be and lay down his tools for the betterment of his daughter's family. Never in his life would he have expected to become Dar'Jzo. Never in his life would he have expected to be Ra'gajal's attack cat.

It is difficult to pinpoint where exactly it all went wrong. Perhaps it was from the beginning, in 4E 149. He was born on a seafaring vessel by people who were truly no better than pirates - at least he thinks he was. The southeastern-most city of Pelletine was the port-town of Senchal, and it was as ripe with trade as it was with crime. When the ships were coming in steady, guards would watch every rundown nook and cranny, so some thieves got smart and only became active when business was slow, trading less risk for a less lucrative hit. It all depended on how big of a gambler you were. One of the Baandari, a clan of traders and peddlers, thought that she'd be saving a kitten from the big bad pirates and sneaked her way on board to pick him up from off the deck. When the smuggler made it back to the trading post inside town, poor Daro'Rista wasn't met with the praise she hoped for - she was met with scorn. The Baandari didn't deal in people, let alone babies. What started as a good-intentioned, albeit misguided attempt at philanthropy turned into all the reason in the world for an exile, and Daro'Rista became Cast-Cat.

Though this left everyone wondering what to do with the little young khajiit. Put it back on the boat with the pirates? The baby wouldn't survive! What was their intention with the baby anyway? They decided that it might have been best to either find someone willing to take him or raise the child themselves. Then they looked to Daro'Rista. Now a Cast-Cat she may be, but her act was at least done out of concern, yes? They took pity on her, though dare not re-initiate her because her gambling took too many risks. Perhaps too risky even to be taking care of a child, but Daro'Rista stopped them there - she took the child in the first place, so she will take responsibility for him. She only asked that the child could be raised Baandari like she was, and perhaps the child will do better. The Baandari agreed.

So a young cat was named Kil, raised by a trader-thief and a clan of peddlers. His origins were quite unknown to him, though Daro'Rista was no stranger when it came to sharing how he was found, so it was fair to say that Kil wasn't sure how he fit into the community around him. His mother wasn't really his mother and his father was essentially an entire clan that his mother used to be a part of, but she was exiled and yet he's allowed to be Baandari, and he came from a pirate ship where there was no telling if he was born to its crew-mates or if he was stolen away from someplace else. It was doubtless that he felt at least a little lost or had a fractured sense of identity. He just had to stick through it though, and he ended up learning the art of trade, hustling, and hawking, and perhaps the seedier aspects of life through Daro'Rista and some of the Baandari who were actually good at it.

Though in all fairness to Daro'Rista, it was she who taught him how to hunt. Learning to shoot a bow, learning the fox-trot - it was cheaper than buying the meat and the Baandari were nothing if not bargain hunters. The idea of saving money was sometimes more tantalizing than the boars and sand-crabs they were hunting! Kil never cared for trade like most of the Baandari seemed to, but they did instill into him a sort of resentment for government - not that he was your traditional rebel or anarchist, but the Baandari were a free people and he didn't want any pesky officials getting into his business.

It wasn't until his mid-teens did he really start getting into particularly seedy trade. As far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as illegal trade. If a customer wanted a particular item, who was anyone to stop them? Moon sugar was no such item, but when it was distilled? Skooma was an ever-present problem across Elsweyr! So popular a drug was it, that it seemed that as much as half of Senchal was addicted to it. Very few of the Baandari in Senchal were willing to handle such hot wares and they warned Kil against it. For a while, he adhered to their wisdom, but when Daro'Rista was caught with sticky-paws and thrown into a cell, Kil went forward with the idea in hopes of raising enough money to spring his godmother free. He was never going to touch the stuff, of course. He knew that it was basically poisonous garbage and he never had any intention of indulging himself in it.

If there were a couple things the Baandari told him about the skooma trade, it was that it was extremely cutthroat, illegal, and each and every dealer was a rival who had it out for you, so it wasn't as easy as finding someone to teach you how to make it. Luckily for him, he was Baandari, and the clan takes care of its own. One of their own people by the name of Saleel - a black Cathay-raht (otherwise known in Cyrodiil as "Smokes-the-Crack"), who was in and of himself of a drug problem who decided that skooma costed too much and decided to learn how to make it himself. Saleel argued that none know how to make skooma better than he, because he's the only one who samples his own wares! That cat was rarely ever sober, and sometimes that made learning how to make skooma a pain-staking task all on its own... but that was how he got into the trade.

If there was anything he learned about the skooma trade, it was that there's no such thing as easing into it. You can't hawk your wares without getting into trouble, and nobody will come to you unless they know who you are. So what does one do? You hunt down as many sugar-tooths as you can find in the city. Catch them while they're shivering with the skooma-shakes, and you... "help them out" by easing their withdrawal with an itty bitty free sample. Then you let them know where they can find you. He chose an old storehouse on the docks. Cats don't like water (him included), but if you were wracked with addiction, wasn't it a small price to pay? Sometimes, though, addicts who are poor and can't afford the skooma will simply see a small, young khajiit and just try to take it from him.

It was as the clan said: skooma dealings were cutthroat and dangerous.

He returned home battered, bruised, and fur soggy with seawater after he was pushed off the side of the docks. He was frustrated and angry that he was seen as nothing more than a child when he was at his seventeenth year. Though his clan felt sorry for the kid, they still laughed and joked about today being the day he became a man, ironically calling him Ja'kil - it became less funny to them when Kil went along with it. He called himself Ja'kil from that point onward, hoping that would make people take him more seriously. The clan tried to explain, it didn't matter how young or how old you were. There are some out there who will simply seek to take advantage of you and a fancy new name wasn't going to change that. It put him down at first, but they continued: what he needed to do was learn how to defend himself, and the Baandari weren't without their warriors.

They taught him moves and self-defense techniques that should allow him to take care of your average drugged-up cat. Anyone with any actual training he should be wary of, but for the most part, the practice did him good. When the same customer from the other day found him again, Ja'kil wasn't the one who was thrown into the water this time.

The next couple of years for Ja'Kil was pretty much spent honing his trade. He wasn't a good merchant by any means, but he learned how to make his business work and he learned how to make better skooma more efficiently, making himself no longer reliant on Saleel's tutelage. On the downside, it was in that amount of time that Ja'kil wasn't able to meet his goal of bailing Daro'Rista out of prison before she got out on good behavior - making a profit off of addicts wasn't exactly as lucrative as he imagined, but now he had the experience so he may as well stick with it. It added to the struggle of coming to terms with his identity, since he didn't feel like this was his calling. Daro'Rista didn't approve of her godson becoming a skooma peddler, but she understood why he turned to it. While she was never a part of the trade, she did move goods from time to time. She offered her aid to him in that regard nonetheless, hoping that she could keep him safe until the time came when he grows tired of this business.

Though it became clear that he didn't spend all of his time messing around while she was in jail; he became kinda good at it. He learned most of the tricks - his first experience hardened him enough to be able to demand respect without scaring away his customers. He learned to use dead drops instead of carrying the goods nearby or on his person. He learned not just the guards' rounds, but their names, and learned credible deniability by allowing himself to be seen at certain times of the day while his customer picked up their prescription - one can't be skulking about at all hours of the day. Even during his meetings, he'd be waiting for his customers at the docks with a basket of fish at his side, a fishing pole in hand, and his feet hanging off the docks.

At nineteen years old, 4E 168, he met the khajiit who would one day bear his child: Lalana, a black-furred Suthay-raht from a family who owned a plantation. Grew things from moon sugarcane to bananas, herded goats, and even owned an elephant which plowed the land for them. The land was protected by pahmar to discourage thieves from poaching what they owned. They made everything from banana rum to traditional Elsweyr Fondue - it was safe to say that she came from a totally different caste than Ja'kil did, but she didn't want to live her life being reliant on her family's wealth. Still, they were smitten by one another. The rustic man of few words giving the bad boy vibe was just as alluring to Lalana as much as her elegance and rebellious side was to Ja'kil. Her family warned against the dangers of running off with street cats like that dastardly Baandari, Ja'kil, but as far as Lalaana was concerned, there was no evidence of him being dangerous. He never told her the truth of what he did for a living.

Of course they were young and stupid and without restraint - but they loved each other. It didn't take long before they were with child, which marked one of the happiest days for Daro'Rista. The young cat she had saved and raised had finally become a father of his own and perhaps that was the day she stopped trying to hold his hand through life. The Baandari rejoiced for his happiness and welcomed both his lover and, months later, their daughter with open arms. For the first time, he felt like he actually had a purpose: to house and protect his new family. So as Lalana suggested that they gave their daughter the name Datta, after the first Mane. Ja'kil let her make the decision - it wouldn't be fair for him to decide two names in the same day, because from that day forward, he wasn't Ja'kil, he was S'kil; for he was no longer the same brat who thought changing his name made him a different person. No, it was the deed - and since the deed of fatherhood made him a different person, the old name no longer reflected him.

Of course, the Baandari clan couldn't help but make fun of him for being so melodramatic, but they respected his wishes.

You would be forgiven for thinking that there would be a drastic change in his lifestyle following that day. How does one explain to their family that they are a skooma dealer? What if that danger finds its way to them? Well, it was all the more reason to not be caught, yes? He figured that if he was good at something, then it would be a waste of ability to not use it - such was one of the ways the Baandari taught him. Of course, he had to get better at it if he was to keep safe. Get smarter. He made his reputation as a fisherman and a hunter apparent to Senchal - it was better to be known for something innocuous than to not be known at all... those sorts were the suspicious types that the guards made a point of keeping their eyes on. Now mindful of all these different things, his job became so much harder. He needed allies and people he could trust to help him do the dirty work when he couldn't do it himself. There was Saleel, but he was more likely to smoke the skooma than not. Within the Baandari in Senchal, there was only one other these days who was willing to move skooma around: Dar'sho, the son of Ra'Mada, one of the Baandari's leaders.

He was a few years older than S'kil, but given how he's been with them since he was a kitten, they've known each other for nearly twenty years. Dar'sho was more than happy to lend a helping hand to him, especially since he was the only other person ballsy enough to handle the drug. For the next sixteen years, they've been business partners, taking on the ups and downs together and battling their rivals. From moving skooma, to selling it - Dar'sho was always the better businessman, but S'kil was better at being discrete and actually knew how to make the stuff - to sabotaging business rivals and even having to bully and collect debts when they needed to. Dar'sho covered for him when he had to spend time with his family and even went as far as to provide an uncle for his daughter. They were partners, plain and simple. Even if the going got rough and certain customers thought that they could take from them, they took care of the problem together. When they came home with a cut or a bruise, the blamed it on a wild boar while on a bad hunting trip, or some other form of wildlife with a particularly nasty temper.

Though there were some close calls that resulted in some of their stock or one of their labs being ransacked by the guard, they made a point of never being caught. Don't gamble and don't take risks. Their lives weren't worth only a couple bottles of skooma. This was the start of a regional meme of a particular skooma dealer in Pelletine called the Senchal Sugar Ghost. The name got around, but nobody knew who it was - it was just used whenever someone stumbled upon an old skooma den or a dead drop with nobody there. It became more of a joke then anything, since it could have been any one of the handful of skooma peddlers in Senchal. What started off as a strategy to hunt down an unknown, wanted criminal ended up backfiring. Literally everyone called each other the ghost. Wanted posters were made for the Senchal Sugar Ghost depicting just the rough outline of a khajiit (because duh, ghosts were invisible) - at its core though, it was mostly a mockery of the guard. Hunting down an "unknown criminal" is like hunting down someone who doesn't exist. It was the Gray Fox all over again.

In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea to be asking an entire population of khajiit to share some responsibility for the law.

All the while, his family has been growing as well. Lalana has earned herself a place in the Baandari with her connections to her side of the family and opening trade between them and the clan. She had a good head for mercantilism that the clan has ultimately come to respect, and their daughter Datta was grew up idolizing her and saw the Baandari as something of a huge extended family, many of which were more than happy to entertain her with their sleight of hand tricks and faux prophecies. Datta sought to follow in her mother footsteps, because in her words, "she's the prettiest and smartest person in the whole world!"

It's difficult to blame his daughter for picking a favorite. As much as he loved her, he essentially had two full-time jobs and one was required to hide the other, so he was almost as much of a ghost to his daughter as he was to Senchal. He was barely ever around to help raise her and he loathed himself for that. He got the sense that perhaps his daughter resented him too as she grew older. It was difficult to hunt, fish, be a big-time drug dealer, and then wash away all the smells and fumes from his fur after cooking the garbage up all in one day before it was her bedtime. It was difficult, but every time he entertained the thought of leaving the business, Dar'Sho would pull him back in. He couldn't just leave. "You can't waste talent."

4E 184 - sixteen years after Datta was born was the year his life was changed, and the skeletons in his closet that he tried so desperately to hide came storming out of the shadows. Sometimes you think you've tried so hard and made so sure to cover your tracks, anything to prevent the worst from happening, like how S'kil thought he made sure that nobody followed him home. Between he and Dar'sho, surely it was impossible for one of the rivaling skooma dealers to try and eliminate the competition by sending an assassin to kill him in his own home. Just seconds after arriving home one evening as S'kil leaned in to greet his lover with a nuzzle and waving hello at his daughter from across the room, taking in the smell of the wood smoke from the fire place and the smell of freshly cooked food... Lalana's eyes grew wide from a sight she saw from behind him. She threw S'kil aside, inadvertently taking a dagger in the chest with the assailant driving all of his weight behind it mid-leap. Even the assailant seemed shocked by the turn of events, shocked enough to remain frozen long enough for S'kil to process what was happening - his lover on the floor, bleeding out... he was overcome with rage.

With an agonized, ear-splitting scream he lunged at the cat who hurt his wife while drawing a knife from his belt. He grabbed their dagger-wielding paw with his free hand, and used his weight to pin the assailant's shoulders to the ground with his knees.

The assailant struggled as he yelled out loud, "Dark moons take you! You skooma vardariit-"

Nothing was stopping him from plunging his knife into their face. Then again and again, over and over...

Dar'sho was close enough to hear the commotion and sprinted his way to their front door, unable to even get a word out seeing before him the grisly horror of the scene which left him speechless. One khajiit undoubtedly dead, face unrecognizable amidst the gore, and Lalana being cradled in S'kil's arms who was rocking back and forth, trying to talk to her lifeless body through his tears. Their daughter was sobbing into her mother's belly. The family needed to mourn, and as much Dar'sho wanted to mourn too, he felt a responsibility to them to help take care of things while they were vulnerable. He immediately started looking through the pockets of the assailant's body.

"Dar'sho..." S'kil weakly said, "what are you..."

Dar'sho said nothing, but apparently found what he was looking for in the form of a crumpled up note. He quickly read it, his fur becoming increasingly bristled and tail increasingly anxious. He balled the the piece of parchment and threw it into the fireplace, the room glowing brighter for a moment as it lit up like kindling.

"It's Jo'Zhar." Dar'sho growled. "He knows it was us."

S'kil shook his head in shame and pressed his head against his wife's.

"We have to take care of this now, S'kil, before it gets any worse."

"Papa..." Datta whimpered. "What did he mean by skooma...?"

By that point, the sounds of footfalls from neighboring houses and from the clan's residence started storming closer, people calling to each other, asking questions like, "what was that?" S'kil shook his head and looked at his daughter, saying, "I'll explain later."

Datta stared solemnly, long and hard as her mother, as she mumbled, "It's always later..."

The words stung S'kil's heart and he frowned, then looked to Dar'sho with a crestfallen glance. "Go. I'll meet with you."

He nodded and fled the scene as S'kil's neighbors and clan fell upon his home, gasping in shock and mourning with him. Datta would stay with the clan that night, and the Clan-Mother would prep the body for safe passage to the Sands Behind the Stars. Tonight, S'kil would not find sleep, but instead Dar'Sho, who waited for him at the docks where they would begin their search for Jo'Zhar. Though his former hiding place still remained abandoned, they turned to the sugar-tooths on the street for information. It didn't take long, since many of these cats S'kil knew as his buyers, and he always kept himself composed - not tonight. He wasn't hiding a single ounce of his emotions. When he demanded to know the location of one of the former dealers in Senchal - the one who got hit hard by a rival - it didn't take long for them to understand what was happening and they knew better than to stand in the middle of it. They directed S'kil straight to Jo'Zhar, where he sat in a storehouse on the far western end of the outskirts of Senchal. S'kil didn't waste any time in trying to make an example of Jo'Zhar or making him suffer. He just made sure he saw him coming before he put him down like an animal. An arrow through the neck - fwp! His body dropped to the ground. They dragged the body out into the jungle to let the wildlife take care of what was left.

They returned in time for sunrise, exhausted from a night's lack of sleep and the emotional toll the day prior had on them. They did however return in time to prepare for the passing ceremony. Between Lalana's family and the Baandari clan, they afforded enough money to invest in carving out a place in a cave for her to rest instead of a simple burial cairn. Once placed in the cave, they buried Lalana's body in a collection of stones, the first ones to be layed were by her husband and child, then followed by her family. The members of the Baandari clan filled in the rest. It was a day of mourning for a great many people, for Datta especially, but she did not forget what her father had promised her. She confronted him again, wanting to know why her mother died the previous night. Why did the murderer choose them? Why did they call him a skooma sucker?

"Look into this one's eyes, child." S'kil said. "Do they wane like the moons? Or does your father's body shake and shiver like the sugar-tooths along the streets? Worry not, S'kil is well. Clawless coward was about to die. He sought to insult him."

Datta was quite for a moment, apparently not satisfied with the answer.

"Jer do?" S'kil asked.

"Skooma vardariit." She said. "Papa, what have you been up to? Who is Jo'Zhar? Why did mama have to die?"

S'kil sighed and said, "Jo'Zhar was a dealer in skooma. Dar'sho and S'kil put an end to his business."

"You are no dust-faced guard, papa." Datta replied bitingly. "What business is it of yours to get into matters like that? Why did your family not know of it?"

S'Kil was at a loss for words. No explanation for his daughter - the clever girl that she was, she had him cornered. Apparently she was sharper and more observant than he ever realized. Perhaps he would have known this if only he was with her more often.

"This one was hoping you'd come out with it." Datta continued. "She's seen you with baskets of nightshade, she sees your eyes irritated at the end of the day. Smells the sugar clinging to your fur. You and Datta are Baandari! They trade! This one visits the market and hears from fishermen how you are such a favorite customer of theirs. How much fish you buy. You say you fish them yourself!"

S'kil hung his head low wordlessly.

"This one feared you were trading in skooma, this one hoped she was wrong! Ziss, you're the reason mama is dead."

Those were the last words she spoke to him before she stopped talking to him for the next year. The year wasn't easy. Half the time, it seemed that he did nothing besides allowing himself to waste away. The other half, he looked into the mirror and hated what he saw. He wanted to change, change for the better; change for his daughter, even if she refused to talk to him... he wanted to changed for Lalana - bless her memory. He went out looking for his former labs and stockpiles and destroyed them. He destroyed every leftover trace of his skooma production, even letting Dar'sho know that it was over. His partner was slightly disappointed, but not upset. He thought that perhaps S'kil was right in doing so, for he had already lost so much because of it. The whole year, as short as it was, felt like it had gone oh so slowly for S'kil who had nothing to do as he let his home slowly become dilapidated.

It was a year later, 4E 185, when Datta finally visited him again, accompanied by a Cathay-raht.

"Uncle Dar'sho told this one what you have been up to." She spoke softly. "It can't erase what has happened... but I am proud of you."

S'kil bowed his head and flattened his ears, a remorseful frown taking over his face. He said, "S'kil only wishes that he had the clarity of mind to change himself sooner, so that he could be with his family."

"You might not have been there for Datta," she said, "but at least you can be there for the ma'khajiit."

S'kil looked down to see his daughter holding her tummy - apparently she had taken a page out of his own book when it came to early parenthood! His dejected disposition appeared instantly uplifted for the first time since Lalana's passing, though he remained speechless. He looked at Datta's partner with his ears perked.

"Do'garamba." She introduced as S'kil eagerly reached to shake his hand.

Datta continued, "Mama always told this one stories about you when you were younger. The Baandari, too. A fondness for changing your name, yes?" Datta teased, though the modulation in her voice suggested it was endearing.

"This one was never sure of who he was or was supposed to be." S'kil admitted. "Even now, S'kil wishes to be a different person."

"Please then, allow your daughter to do you the honors..." Datta softly said. "...Dro'kil."

That was it then - a name he has actually earned for the first time. Indeed, Dro'kil was rather young for a grandfather now, but his experiences have so far granted him a great deal of insight and wisdom. It's safe to say that a huge chunk of his life was actually normal after that point. He was there for his grandchild as she grew up, and he got to be there for his daughter as well. He got to know Do'garamba, who happened to be the warrior in his family and had the dream of being the Mane's personal guard - an honorable sort, even if it meant enforcing thjizzrini. It seemed that, for the next eighteen years, his life would resemble any normal citizen and he spent most of his free time hunting in the jungles. He put what he already knew of alchemy into crafting different kinds of elixers, mostly antidotes and antivenin - and learned the craft better in order to make other potions that enhanced his natural abilities that allowed him to hunt better. Nighteye, life detection, potions which helped him steady his aging body as he pulled back his bowstring. He made sure that there was never a night that neither his daughter's family nor none of the Baandari went to bed hungry.

For eighteen years, he finally found the role that suited him. He finally felt comfortable with his identity. Grandfather. Hunter. Baandari. He finally had a sense of who he was as a person.

4E 203 - eighteen years is a long time to watch the world pass you by. While Datta might not have noticed it with being preoccupied with her own son, Saddi, and her role and duties within the Baandari. That which had actually earned her the title of Dra'datta for her excellent wit and wisdom in trade agreements. Now, though, the land of Elsweyr was more tumultuous than ever. The khajiit were allied with the empire in order to leave the Dominion, and the price of such freedom was death. The Mane was issuing drafts, and Dro'kil has seen them escorting people from their homes, which he was fortunately spared from, but his grandson... well, he was not so lucky. "For the greater good," he would hear people say. It angered him. The boy was meant for better things - he was intelligent and cunning, had a fascination for prestidigitation and prophecies and sleight of hand. He wanted to learn how to be a mage! Dro'kil wasn't going to let any crown take that away from him. In confrontation with the local recruiter, he was directed to his regional commander who would be the one to decide. Upon talking to him, the commander simply laughed in his face and shoved him off with a warning, suggesting that Dro'kil would get hurt if he kept it up.

So then he met with Dar'sho. The old cat was still up to his usual tricks ever since their business dissolved, but they greeted each other like brothers all the same. He shared with him what was troubling him, and Dar'sho seemed to catch on to what he was implying.

"We are going to kill the Mane then, yes?"

Well, seemed to at least. Assassination attempts seemed to be the running joke around here since three years back, despite everyone's respect for the spiritual and cultural significance the Mane represented. Damnable Renrijra Krin Va'Aneqasa.

"No," Dro'kil said, "this one will be there for his grandson. Dro'kil will take his place. Soul for a soul."

"Your old tail?" Dar'sho retorted in disbelief.

"You and Dro'kil has cultivated their skills over the course of lifetimes!" He defended indignantly. "They will travel to Torval very soon. When they get there, this one needs your cleverness to find out who actually wants the Mane dead. Preferably anyone who is close to the crown."

"What is it you intend to do?" He asked.

Dro'kil looked at his partner in crime with a curious, innocuous expression and simply said, "Show why Dro'kil is more valuable to the Mane than unproven children."

The next day, the pair headed out toward Torvald. Not without explaining to the Baandari clan leaders first, of course. What basically entailed rescuing one of their own was enough to receive their approval and loan them the services of two senche (who were promised large piles of food upon their return), so that they could travel through the jungle of Pelletine in decent time. It costed them one or two sleepless nights in the jungle as they stayed awake and alert for any of the vicious predators that lurked behind every bush, but between a rogue, a hunter, and two vicious tigers, there were few things that the four of them couldn't handle.

When they did finally make it to Torval, they were amazed by the number of soldiers and guards stationed within the city. It was little wonder there was a draft if they were both fighting a war and worrying about assassinations within their own state. Dro'kil looked to Dar'sho, and the latter went to work collecting information, assuring his friend that they'd have everything they'd need the next day. Meanwhile, Dro'kil spent his time in an inn's private room with the company of an alchemy set consisting of a morter and pestle, alembic, retort, and calcinator, all working together in order to separate the properties of the alchemical ingredients being distilled. Nightshade, the other ingredient in making skooma was the easiest for him to get his hands on. Antlers, which were carved off one of his kills in the past and he kept as a trophy - he destroyed them and reduced them to powder, mixing it with the nightshade.

Finally, the jarrin root. Rare and hard to come by since it only grew on Stros M'Kai - but for a Baandari in Senchal? There were one or two from his own clan who had a sprig that they were holding on to for a while, and all it takes is a little extra money to compensate for what it takes to get a hold of one. The price didn't matter to Dro'kil. It would be worth every septim.

The end result was basically a pure and undiluted poison.

The next day came sooner than they expected, and both khajiit were quite tired from working throughout the night. They were not as young as they used to be and they could feel it, but they both have been through too much in their lives to let one sleepless night slow them down. They made their preparations: the poison was prepped. They put Dar'sho into some new, fresh clothes befitting of the palace's kitchen staff. Yesterday, he asked about any dissent among the leadership in Torval and he came back with quite a few names who were apparently displeased with the Mane and his ideas, most of whom were northern representatives from Anequina who had a distaste for the seat of power. He investigated their homes and half of the names he was given had written evidence for plots against the crown - correspondence between one another - which constituted as treason.

Ra'ssran. Ra'vada-dro. Dra'vansi. Dro'kil remembered these names. Less important it was for him, perhaps - more importantly it was for Dar'sho to know, but he wanted to know which lives had to pay for the betterment of his own family.

It took the rest of the day for him to get an audience with the Mane. Dar'sho went on ahead to assimilate with the servants inside while spent all day waiting in a long line of people asking for medicine or money or to do something about the law - but Dro'kil was patient. It wasn't until supper time was he able to meet with the court, at which point he was subjected to watch the Mane, all of his servants, trusted advisers, and other khajiiti leaders stuff their faces while he stood there on an empty stomach, but he was nonetheless grateful. It only made their plan easier for them.

"My Mane, this one seeks audience with you," Dro'kil began, "for the purpose of rescinding the draft order on my grandson, Saddi."

"By Alkosh, you look terrible." One cat commented, apparently ignoring his request.

"Dro'kil has spent many sleepless nights travelling from Senchal in order to beseech this of you." Dro'kil explained.

"Then I am afraid you should have spent that time sleeping, instead." The Mane said plainly. "If I agreed to rescind the draft on every person who asked, we would not have enough warriors to fight the Dominion to secure the freedom we khajiit deserve."

Dro'kil sighed. This was nothing he did not anticipate. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Dar'sho hanging in the doorway watching them. It looked like it was time to proceed with the plan.

"Then perhaps we can come to an agreement--"

"This is no bargain you can win, Baandari." The Mane interrupted, looking at him knowingly. He tapped the side of his head with finger. Dro'kil was somewhat unsettled by his knowledge, but he regained his composure. The Mane only thought he knew enough about him. The truth was that if he did, then there was no way Dro'kil would even be allowed in this room.

Dro'kil pressed on, his face stoic and serious, "It is a fair trade: a life for a life. A soul for a soul. I will take the place of my grandson."

The whole room seemed to erupt in laughter, and Dro'kil could have sworn he even felt the air around him shift, but he remained still and stern.

"Don't take this the wrong way," the Mane began, "but don't you think we could get more use out of a young khajiit, easily molded and better able, than what we could out of his grandfather?"

"What is a child with sticks and stones compared to a lifetime of experience?" Dro'kil asserted confidently. "This one can be far more useful to you in the coming years than Saddi. Leaders cannot be formed overnight, no?"

"And you have proof that you are as competent as you suggest?"

Dro'kil smiled. Dro'kil rarely ever smiled - and that was the cue for Dar'sho to get ready. He saw from his periphery that he had begun moving.

"That is a most excellent idea, my Mane!" He said. He looked around the room at all the leaders and officials of Torval. "How about we all toast? To the Mane, and to proving Dro'kil worthy of his trust! He shall make a show of it!"

This prompted laughter from the Mane, which seemed to permit laughter from the rest of the court. "You're a mad cat," the Mane said, "but I like you. Very well - a toast then!"

Everyone in the room seemed to be finishing what little remained in their cups, so that - as per the custom - they may give their toast with full cups. Dar'sho came out of the kitchen with a platter in hand with fresh goblets of wine. Very few payed him little mind as he was very particular in which goblet he handed to whom. After he went around and handed out all the fresh cups of wine, he served Dro'kil last - the two averted eye contact - and he returned to the kitchen, his tail twitching in anticipation.

"To the old cat making a fool of himself!" The Mane declared.

"To the fool!" The room repeated in unison.

Everyone in the room took a drink from their cups except for Dro'kil. That was the moment he felt something cold and sharp on his neck, but nothing was there.

Then followed the sounds of three bodies hitting the floor. Ra'ssran, Ra'vada-dro, and Dra'vansi, with foam at their mouths, were dead in mere seconds. The Mane and the dozen other khajiit looked shocked, the personal guard were brandishing their own weapons but were unsure of what to do - the Mane was fine. Most of the people in the room were fine... but the unmoving, calm expression on Dro'kil's face was telling.

"What is the meaning of this?!" The Mane demanded.

Suddenly a knife coalesced before Dro'kil, along with the wielder's hand - the veil of an invisibility spell was immediately dropped, revealing a tattooed ohmes woman much shorter than Dro'kil, holding the knife to his throat. Suddenly the strange cold feeling at his neck and the shifting air around him made sense. She must have been there the entire time! But Dro'kil kept his composure, dropping the goblet of wine onto the floor and slowly raising his hands in the air.

He made sure to speak slowly and calmly while he was at the mercy of the ohmes woman, "Search Dro'kil's pouch. Right hip."

She hesitantly followed his direction as Dro'kil continued, "Dro'kil is proving himself, his Mane. Those renrij were traitors who plotted against you under your nose. Beneath the roof of your own home."

The ohmes whipped out the pieces of parchment from his pouch and began reading through the documents, her wild eyes unchanging and her knife still pressed against Dro'kil. It recorded much of the correspondence between the three khajiit and their plots to betray the Mane with their own handwriting. The ohmes looked up at the Mane unflinchingly and said, "What he says is true."

There were a few moments of silence as the Mane seemed to come to grips with this information, a solemn and mournful air overtaking him before he regained his composure. "At ease. Dro'kil, my apologies to you for not being more hospitable. This is Ra'gajal, my spymaster. Ra'gajal, did you foresee this coming?"

The ohmes took her knife away from Dro'kil and sheathed it, then stood at attention before the Mane. "They were but a few of the suspects I had identified. I did not yet have the evidence to act on my suspicions."

"Tell me Dro'kil," the Mane said, leaning forward in his chair, "how does an outsider such as yourself beat my spymaster to finding the evidence?"

"A fresh new perspective, this one supposes." He humbly lied. The truth was that he dared not let Dar'sho get mixed up in this mess.

"Indeed..." Ra'gajal muttered to herself as she inspected him inquisitively.

"Well, as sad as I am to lose friends this day..." the Man began with a sigh, "I am glad to earn at least one more friend. You have saved my life this day and have proven yourself, so I will agree to your request to rescind the order on your grandson. Saddi, from the Baandari clan in Senchal, yes?"

The Mane motioned for his guards to take care of the three dead bodies within the room, then looked back at Dro'kil. "Your... talents will be useful, yes. Warriors and conscripts are easy to come by, but Agents of the Mane... less so. I shall appoint you to Ra'gajal. She will inform you of your duties and assign you your missions. I will permit you time to return to Senchal and say your goodbyes to your family. When you return, your training will begin."

That was that. Dar'sho had gone on ahead without him - it was best to not be acquainted with this whole operation. Dro'kil would return at least a day after him to give the bittersweet news. Dra'datta was upset that her father would be leaving again, but ever so grateful that her own son would be spared from the horrors of war. She could never thank him enough. After saying goodbye to the rest of the clan, and giving his deepest thanks to Dar'sho for his help, Dro'kil returned to Torval to begin this new chapter of his life; but before doing so, he decided to meet with the regional commander near Senchal so that he could rub it in his face. That no good, rotted, slow-pawed, short-tail...

The first order of business, as far as Ra'gajal was concerned, was to suggest to Dro'kil to change his name if he wanted to protect his family. She of course did no such thing, for she had no family to protect. Dro'kil faced this issue with reluctance at first, but eventually conceded. He had struggled with a fractured identity for so much of his life... what were another few years? From that point on, they agreed to call him Dar'Jzo. Now the training begins.

The next two years was spent as an Agent of the Mane, the spymaster's very own executioner. They honed the skills he already knew and taught him actual techniques to use over what he taught himself, but otherwise he required very little work and turned out to be in better shape than his age indicated. Missions either required him to simply sit and watch a person or location for a certain amount of time, infiltrating a group or building, or taking out their enemies. Something changed within Dar'Jzo during this time that made him shut himself off to the rest of the world. He was still the same person as before, but he was less open with himself now. It became clear that Dar'Jzo was not the most charming individual, so they learned to keep him on missions where he wasn't supposed to be seen. Those missions he particularly excelled at, and they took him as far as the Summerset Isles to aid the coup in Alinor.

When the Mane was assassinated in 4E 205, everything was not so clear-cut. He was killed by jarrin root, the main component in Dar'Jzo's own concoction. Ra'gajal was never very trusting of Dar'Jzo, always suspecting that there was something more to him the day he approached the Mane than what he let on, but he was on a mission that was nowhere near Torval. As far as she was concerned, Dar'Jzo was the only one she could trust. This was unfortunate for him, because he thought that since the Mane died, that would be his chance at freedom and that he could finally return to his family. But the spymaster was stringent, even more stern than Dar'Jzo was, and possessed unwavering devotion to the throne which seated the Mane. As long as she was alive, she would see that Torval remained protected for the good of Elsweyr. That also meant getting Dar'Jzo involved in the civil war that followed, taking out members on both sides if they posed a great enough threat.

But something has been bothering Ra'gajal lately, and not just the fact that the cause of the Mane's death leads her to suspect that it was imperial treachery, but the movements going around the world. Word reached Elsweyr that the dunmer of Morrowind aligned themselves with Akaviri monsters and moved on Skyrim. She had agents all over Tamriel and half as many within Elsweyr, but she didn't have anyone up north. Khajiits had the bad habit of being turned into cloaks or carpets by the nords after the Stormcloaks took over. All of Elsweyr was vulnerable at the moment, and she didn't want another party taking advantage of that and entering the fray. So she directed Dar'Jzo toward the far end of Tamriel with the logic that his ability to stay hidden in the shadows should protect them from the most unruly of them. There, he'd also be far, far away from his family.

He almost told her no.

Instead, he obeyed. He remembered why he was doing this. If he went back on the oath he swore to the last Mane, then his grandson would be free picking. He couldn't subject him to the kinds of horrors he has seen and the sins he's committed. He was to take a ship that would circle around the west and be destined to dock in Solitude. As much as Dar'Jzo thought boats were bad luck, that was ironically the safest way to get there. There was one perk to it though: the boat was docked in Senchal. Before he'd leave, he'd get to visit his family. Except one thing was missing... Saddi had left two months ago to pursue mage training at the College of Winterhold. Winterhold was supposedly destroyed last month.

Despite his disdain for ships and water, Dar'Jzo boarded the vessel with the greatest of haste and convinced the captain to proceed with utmost urgency. Tracing along the south and western coast of Tamriel, stopping from port to port only to replenish their supplies. They zipped between Valenwood and the Summerset Isles with great caution, stopped by Hammerfell for one more replenishment, and went around High Rock to finally make anchor at the port just outside of Solitude. From there, Dar'Jzo's mission begins. Not just to keep an eye on the Akivir situation, but also to find any trace of his grandson. When he finds him - and come Oblivion or high water, he will find him - there was nothing or no one in this world that could make him turn his back on his family ever again. Not even Ra'gajal.

Word had it that there were some mercenaries who recently rolled into town and had a personal encounter with the Akavir. That would be as good a place as any to start.

Capabilities

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§ Attributes

Major Agility, Minor Intelligence

§ Skills

Expert: Sneak – (“This one has history in not being seen. As a broker, as a hunter, and as one of death's couriers. Consider this opportunity a privilege.”)

Adept: Marksman (Bow) – (“After years of practice, masters can take aim and spread doom's wings as fast as this one blinks. All Dar'Jzo has to do is take his time. There is no hurry. Death is patient.”)

Adept: Alchemy – (“Many years were spent distilling moon sugar. There rests a fine line between sweet brain candy and deadly poison. Other reagents are no different.”)

Adept: Ledgerdemain – (“If this one wants to go somewhere, then who's to say he can't? Hmph, dustfaced renrij knows not of the Three Promises: Gods fight. Mortals die. Dar'Jzo goes where he likes. Laws are useless in stopping these.”)

Apprentice: Hand to hand – (“Many customers think they can take khajiit's product from him. There was reason this one is still alive to see so many moons.”)

Novice: Communication (Mercantile) – (“Dar'Jzo may be Baandari, but he did not have to be a good trader to deal skooma. Skooma sells itself. Addiction is good for brand loyalty.”)

Novice: One-handed (Blade) – (“Skill with blade matters less when they don't see the blade, yes?”)

Novice: Ta'agra – (“Dar'Jzo knows how to read and write his own language. What else matters?”)

§ Weaknesses

Age: Time is the greatest, oldest enemy of mortalkind. We simply cannot have enough of it, and a long life is a lot to afford. Dar'Jzo is not as agile, as strong, or as durable as he was in the past. True, he's still capable of outpacing quite a few of these youngsters out here, he can't keep it up as long as he used to. To compensate for it, he now mostly saves his energy for when he really needs it and lies in waiting.

Lone... Cat?: Lone wolf would've been weird for a khajiit. Anyways, there are only a few people in Dar'Jzo's life that he could actually work well with. In other words, his teamwork isn't all that great. He prefers to get in, get the job done himself, and get out. He can trust in his own experience and ability to carry him through, but he is not as quick to rely on others to get their parts done except for his brother and his master.

Inhospitable: Let's face it, he doesn't exactly have a winning personality. He can't make friends very easily.

Foreigner: Dar'Jzo has spent most of his entire life within Pellentine. What could he possibly know of the world outside of Elsweyr?

§ Spells

N/A

§ Tactics

Now you see me, now you don't. Dar'Jzo's strategy almost entirely depends on him not being seen by the enemy while he takes his time lining up his shots. If he really wants them dead, he'll even lace his arrows with poison and take extra care that his shot fly true. That isn't to say that he doesn't have a back up plan in case he gets caught off-guard. He has his own fair share of practice in hand-to-hand combat, and knows techniques that will allow him to use his enemy's own weight and inertia against them. He's not against using his own bow as a melee weapon as well, one which he utilizes with great finesse as he uses its curvature to trip his enemies, and then uses a dagger to put them down for good. If his dagger doesn't happen to be at the ready, well, then he has the quiver full of arrows at his disposal which should do the job just as well.

§ Relations & Affiliations

Lalana - Wife (61) - Deceased (39)
Dra'datta - Daughter (37) - Alive
Do'garamba - Son-in-law (40) - Alive
Saddi - Grandson (20) - ???
Daro'Rista - Godmother (81) - ??? (Presumably deceased)
Dar'sho - Stepbrother (61) - Alive
Baandari Clan (Active)

§ Opinions

Sadri: Unexpectedly competent. Perhaps not the best planner, and Dar'Jzo can tell from experience that the dunmer is suffering from sugar-shakes, but he's ballsy and amiable enough to deserve begrudging respect even if his judgement is questionable.

Keegan: Out of his league. Props to him for being brave enough to make an attempt on the Cat-Kicker's life and leading him to the lighthouse, but the Altmer's nerves makes him the least suitable mercenary. The most he can see them bonding over is their mutual resentment for water.

Leif: He appreciated the help the nord gave him while the Tear was under attack by the Golden Sload, but apparently these young'uns can't keep up with Dar'Jzo.

Do'Karth: The only other khajiit in the company, and it's a shame that Dar'Jzo couldn't meet the closest thing to a familiar face before the cub went up and left. Never even thanked Dar'Jzo for saving his life! Ungrateful cubs. That's what happens when you fraternize with smooth skins.

Sevine: Spends too much time sulking about the other khajiit. Should learn to stick to her own kind.

§ Other

• Dar'Jzo can't catch fish worth a damn, but that won't stop him from trying.
• Remarkably decent at swimming considering how he hates both boats and water.
• No, seriously. Dar'Jzo hates water. He thinks it tastes awful, too. He splashes a bit of rum in his canteen to make it more palatable.

Inventory

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§ Cash

170 septims

§ Keys & Lockpicks

15 lockpicks, which he keeps stored in different locations. Different pouches, pockets, boots, et cetera. There's one in his bun that's basically serving as a hairpin and keeping it all together.

§ Tools & Crafting Materials

He has a knapsack that he carries around which carries an entire alchemy kit. Morter and pestle, calcinator, alembic, and retort. It requires some assembly, though.

§ Clothing & Armor

(Taken from appearance:) His choice of wardrobe would make sense if he was still living in Senchal, but not so much in Skyrim. For starters, he doesn't wear a shirt. He just doesn't like to and not for any particular reason, but if he had to come up with one, it feels too constricting while he's pulling back his bowstring. He does though wear a black leather bandolier that goes across his chest and over one of his shoulders, and it looks something like a huge leather belt. With it, he carries a few pouches, bags, and a small pack. It is also this bandolier that he attaches his quiver of arrows to, from which Dar'Jzo hangs his bow.

The only actual garments of clothes he wears are loose-fitting, baggy, and breathable black linen pants which he secures to his person with a blood-red sash, and the bottom of his pants are tucked into black leather riding boots. While his fur would be enough to keep him warm for a short while in one of Skyrim's winters, it alone wouldn't protect him for long. During his time on board the ship that takes him from Senchal to Solitude, he was given a black wool long coat by one of the navy men should he be stuck in Skyrim for a while.

§ Weapon & Ammo

• A well made bow made from Valenwood timber, intricately decorated with traditional khajiiti design. Now it's broken.
• A dwarven bow he inherited after Roze's death in the Battle of Smuggler's Cove. He hates how shiny it is.
• 15 steel arrows.
• A curved skinning knife with a gutting hook.

§ Potion & Arcane Supplies

• 1 Elixer of Keenshot
• 1 Potion of Detect Life
• 1 Potion of Cure Poison
• 3 Vials of deadly poison

§ Jewelry & Valuables

A wedding band on one of his fingers and that's about it.

§ Books & Documents

N/A. Don't leave paper trails.

§ Food/Drinks/Ingredients

• 10 strips of dried meat
• 5 smoked sardines
• Half a bottle of banana rum
• 2 sweetrolls
• 5 teaspoons of moon sugar
• 3 sprigs of Nightshade

§ Load Bearing Equipment

• Bandolier with 4 pouches and a brick-sized pack, carrying potions, poison, and alchemical ingredients.
• A knapsack, carrying his alchemy kit.
• A bindle, carrying his food.

§ Other