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1 mo ago
Current i hear dies irae bells ringing in my ossicles every time i claw from the dirt and peer wistfully through the rpg tomb doors thinking, "one last job..." another bony finger of the monkey's paw curls up
3 yrs ago
i can't believe it's already christmas today
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4 yrs ago
*skeletal hand emerges from an unmarked grave* the drive thru forgot my side order
2 likes
4 yrs ago
Imagine having an opinion on rpg dot com
4 yrs ago
Let’s play a game where you try to sext me and I call the police
1 like

Bio

Maybe the real plot was the friends we made along the way. [Last Updated: April 3, 2022]


I'm 26 years old and I have learned not to share too much of my personal life on the internet. I work as an English and writing tutor at a local college.

I love literature and poetry, and I also enjoy writing, and I like to think I'm not half bad at it. I first started writing as a hobby with online roleplay at the start of 2010, and I've slowly drifted away from it in recent years. I enjoy most genres, but if I had to pick a couple of favorites, they would be sci-fi and high fantasy—heavy emphasis on the high fantasy. Some of my favorite characters have come from Elder Scrolls roleplays, since it appeals to the D&D nerd in me.

I have a tendency to get carried away with making my character sheets. I like telling their stories in the sheet sometimes even more than the roleplay itself, which depends on the roleplay itself of course. I want my readers to know how their background influences them as a person, how their personality bleeds into their appearance, and I love watching characters overcome their personal tragedies and finding their true selves as their identities shatter and reform like kintsugi. I've always been a fan of characters overcoming their weaknesses and obstacles and I try to make that show in many of my characters. Therefore, many of the narratives I explore come from a place of vulnerability, but I try to balance the heavy themes with light whimsy.

I also try to research whatever it is I'm writing about so that I'm not just spitting into the wind - unless that's what my character is doing, in which case I try to make sure that's made clear in my writing. It’s kind of hard to define my style, as I’m influenced by all sorts of literary movements and schools of criticism; dark romanticism, modernism, post-modernism, Marxism, feminism, post-structuralism—I have a lot of isms in my pocket. Nathaniel Hawthorne is one of my favorite dark romantic authors, Dickinson is one of my favorite naturalist poets, Judith Ortiz Cofer, Langston Hughes, and Robert Frost—they’ve all in some ways informed my writing, as well as many others. I even tend to look to some of my fellow guild mates for inspiration or analyze what I like about their writing and see what I can do to improve my own through their example.




Prime Rib Boneheads
@Dragonbud
@Luminous Beings
@Maxx
@Shin Ghost Note
@JunkMail
Calcium Supplements
@megatrash
@ML
Rest in peace, @Polymorpheus
@SepticGentleman
@Byrd Man
@Skai
@Heat
@Chuuya
@Enarr
@Tiger


These Tickle My Funny Bone
You can find me in:

Currently in no roleplays.

Most Recent Posts

8:30pm, Last Seed 21
Dibella's House of Common Pleasures


'Too attached to things, indeed; except for maybe the wine glass.' Finch thought to himself.

The young man made a concerted effort in hiding the down payment underneath a wrapping of fabric. Bed sheets were re-purposed into being tied around a dragon scale shield before he re-fixed the sash bound across his chest, so that it would be run through the artifact's grip. He thought of it as a rather lousy down payment; valuable, sure, but it wasn't conspicuous at all and he didn't exactly know how to use a shield efficiently. It's use essentially boiled down to being sold or given to some no-good mercenaries that he didn't even know yet and doubted he'd particularly care for. He cared neither for carrying copious amounts of septims on his person nor for working with others, unless it was on a ship. In this case, working with others meant sneaking and thieving, and his experience made it very clear to him that more didn't make merrier.

A rueful sigh escaped his lips. Since he somehow got dragged into doing a job for a lord likely as corrupt as the next, it likely wouldn't bode well for him to ignore his wishes, or to run off with his expensive down payment. He was certainly right about one thing: this job of his was unexpected. Find the man who stole his golden blade and preferably kill him in the process. Well, that meant Everard set himself up for disappointment at least once. The lord didn't know about Finch's feelings surrounding murder. Or even death for that matter, but that was on him for dismissing his “nobody” hireling so quickly. If Finch was any more spiteful than he already was, he might just walk far away with the dragonhide shield and golden sword, robbing him of both, and go where they'd never find him... but honestly, Everard just dragged him into a no-win scenario: if Finch doesn't go through with this, the lord would likely kill him. If he does, Mathieu might kill him. Explains why the bastard would go through the trouble of picking out a “nobody” like him.

What was even the point of a golden sword? It was far too soft a metal, the man probably just liked carrying it around as a status symbol. Maybe he was overcompensating for the small one in his trousers.

In any case, he appraised the sketch of Mathieu the Whisper. The man was a spymaster, which meant he had a network of people working for him. If he truly did steal the blade, then it's possible he's covering his trail, left a false one, or already knows that Everard hired him to steal it back. Hiring a group would honestly just create more opportunities for leaks, but if Finch was caught unawares, nobody would notice or bat an eye. All he really needed was protection, the rest was just deceiving the deceiver and covering his own trail. Reading about him probably wasn't likely if he was any good at his job, and asking around would be dangerous if any one of them were one of his agents.

He really didn't want to sub-contract mercenaries. This job was already bigger and hotter than he wanted. If someone wanted some dumb ring or key, that'd be fine, but he was being sent after a spymaster's stolen gold sword. Ugh.

The young man strided down the stairs and looked at the keeper of this business behind his counter, counting his coin. Then, next to the stairs, spotted a man taking a deep drink from his ale. On his way over, Finch deliberately bumped into him, causing the man to spill his drink all over himself. Before the man had a chance to be angry with him, Finch leaped into action.

“Oh Gods, I'm so sorry!” Finch gasped, immediately crouching down and trying to pat him dry using his own sleeves. “Sincerely, I didn't notice you. My heads must have been up in the clouds!”

“Ugh,” the man groaned, muttering something under his breath about just getting his shirt tailored, “y'know what, it's just a fucking drink. But would it kill ya to watch where yer goin' next time?”

“You're right. Again, I'm really sorry!” In the midst of patting him down, he broke the drawstring of his coin purse hanging from his belt and glided it towards his pocket. “Next time I get payed and see you here, your drink will be on me.”

The man bitterly waved him away with the thief's head hanging low. He poured the pouch's coins out from inside his pocket and set the empty pouch down on one of the tables too busy with conversation to notice.

“Sir,” Finch said to the manager, who was met with only a finger as he continued to count his coin.

“Sir.” He repeated.

“What? What is it, kid?” The man finally spat.

“I understand some mercenaries are renting a room here.”

“I can't tell you if anyone has rented a room here for confidentiality's sake.”

“If there are mercenaries, then they likely wouldn't mind. They're for hire. I'm looking to hire.”

“I still cannot confirm or deny--”

Finch took the fistful of coins in his pocket and set it on the counter. “This is all I have. Please.”

The keeper looked at the coins and raised an eyebrow at Finch. “Not that it's my business, but don't you need money to hire a mercenary?”

“I have other assets to provide as down payment.”

The man sighed and slid the coins toward his side of the counter before counting them out. “Upstairs. Premium room.”

“Thank you.”

Finch's pace quickened across the ground floor, making a beeline towards the staircase. He heard behind him some sudden shouting, “Hey, you thieving bastard!” Finch whipped around to see the man who Finch had bumped into earlier marching towards the table where he left the empty coin purse and grabbing that man by his shirt. With a relieved sigh, Finch jogged up the next few flights of stairs to where the premium rooms were. He passed the guards stationed outside Everard's moaning chambers and rapped his knuckles against the door beside it.

As soon as the door opened, Finch's dirty face fell grim and serious.

“Are you looking for work?”
Numero dos!

New chapter, new me
ft. @Hank

Lifts-Many-Boulders was not entirely accustomed to city life. The hustle and bustle of the streets, the concerned glances of Nords and Imperials as he tried to squeeze his way through the thoroughfare and duck his head beneath any arches or doorways, and the civilized nature of it all wasn’t a snug fit for him. The Dresmer deprived him of quite a few things growing up, and it left him feeling like an ignorant baby in a world too quick to label him a savage. Then there was quite the embarrassing feeling of pretending that he knew how to read and looking at the list over and over again as if it was some long, densely packed pamphlet of information rather than a brief notice of who was accepted or not. There was the intermittent person who would come around, read the list, and look either disappointed or grinning from ear to ear. There were two such Nord woman, a khajiit, and one Imperial man seemed to utter something beneath his breath too quiet for his words to cross the vertical distance between the two. A well of frustration was building up in his chest when he suddenly heard the same Imperial name mutter his name. His name.

“Lifts-Many-Boulders,” he chuckled, “I can see why.”

The argonian looked to imperial man, who he stood at least a foot over -- to say nothing of his height, for Boulders stood taller than anyone he had ever met -- but he looked at him with some measure of surprise and awe. He slowly turned and, perhaps when the man was not expecting it, covered his shoulder with his own massive hand, still clammy from the melted snow. He squatted down in order to be at equal head heights, and his reptilian eyes bore into the Imperial’s.

“How do you know my name?” He asked curiously. He assumed that maybe he was some kind of wizard or oracle. Considering most of his interactions were between dark elves and argonians, it seemed like a reasonable guess to him.

Rhillian forced himself to remain still when the giant Argonian placed an equally massive paw on his shoulder. He met Boulders' gaze and saw nothing but genuine curiosity in the beastman's eyes. Relieved, and intrigued by the question, Rhillian cleared his throat and smiled. "Your name is listed there," he explained. "I didn't see anyone else here that looks like they can lift many boulders, so I figured that it must be you. I'm pleased that I was right."

He held out a hand for the Argonian to shake, mildly worried that Boulders was going to crush it unintentionally -- but it would be rude not to offer. "My name is Rhillian of Drakelowe. It looks like we've both been accepted into the guild." He paused and tilted his head. "Forgive me for the question, but I must ask. Can you read?"

Boulders’ reaction was first and foremost one of glee and satisfaction. To think somebody actually wanted him around! The spines on his head were as erect as he was overjoyed, and it took much of his self control to keep himself from squeezing Rhillian into paste. Then he was forced to pause as he looked down at the hand being offered to him; Rhillian’s concerns were correct in that the argonian was in fact worried about crushing the man’s hand, so he gently took Rhillian’s hand between two fingers and waggled it around like some kind of fish, somewhat unfamiliar with the greeting. Of course, he’s seen it done before, but in actual practice and the anxiety of actually meeting people, his observations has gone to the wayside in favor of improvising. At the man’s question, he shook his head. “The Dresmer never taught me.” He said matter-of-factly. “But I liked it when one nice lady read to me. Thank you, Rhill….ian, for reading too.”

Lifts-Many-Boulders popped open one of the pouches hanging from the harness strapped across his chest, and with the claw on one of his fingers, seemed to be fishing for something with laser-like focus before a chunk of fish came out stuck to his claw. It smoked and salted, though it still seemed raw in sections and probably in the center, yet undeniably fresh as the sheen of moisture still clung to the salt and sections of underprepared flesh. The argonian offered it to Rhillian, sticking his finger towards his chest. It was clear he wasn’t much of a talker, and when he did, did so in clipped phrases and preferred to communicate through action and kind gestures.

"You're welcome," Rhillian said. He made a mental note to ask after the nature of these 'Dresmer' later. It was his turn to shake his head when the fish was offered to him. "I can't accept that. Thank you, but people like me, Imperials, shouldn't eat fish until it's been cooked through. We can get sick otherwise." He smiled, though, and ran a hand through his silver-streaked hair. He considered how he must look next to the Argonian and the thought made him chuckle. He wasn't a small man by any means and the bulk of his fur-lined robes, as blue as the summer sky, only added to that. And yet Boulders dwarfed him without even trying.

"I can teach how to read, if you like," the priest offered in turn. "You should learn that if you're going to be a citizen of the Empire. We're going to be spending a lot of time together as it is, so there'll be plenty of opportunity. What do you say?"

Boulders cocked his head to the side curiously as he stuck the fish into his mouth and and replied simply, “Dresmer told me my kind can’t read. You are nice to offer, though.”

Then Rhillian’s mention of them working together reminded him of the fact he was given a job to do, and suddenly the sense of camaraderie began creeping in, and he felt the urge to be celebrating with the small nord woman and her khajiit friend. His head cocked to the other side to eagerly watch the little ones jump in place with excitement and gush to one another over their acceptance. He looked around at all those gathered around the post and realized that this would be his new tribe from this point going forward. Looking back to Rhillian, he added, “We have many new friends, yes?”

The purity of the Argonian was endearing and Rhillian couldn't help but grin and nod in agreement. "Yes, we do." Giving it some thought, and armed with the knowledge that the mysterious Dresmer had lied to Boulders, the Imperial theorised that they might be dark elves. Wasn't there a Great House called Dres? "Say, my friend; these Dresmer you mentioned. They wouldn't happen to have grey skin and red eyes, would they?"

Boulders nodded and gave a low growl that seemed to serve as affirmation. “Yes, dunmers. Many kinds of dunmers too, but the ones that took me are from Dres. So they’re Dresmer. You know them?”

Rhillian paused for a second before he shrugged. “I know of them, but I never visited the plantations when I went to Morrowind,” he said and looked at the Argonian in a new light. A runaway slave, he deduced, which explained the lack of an education. “You should know that the Dresmer lied to you. Argonians…” He paused and racked his brain. “Saxhleel, your people, can read just fine. Like everyone else, you just need to be taught. Your former masters deliberately didn’t because that made you easier to control,” the Imperial said and tapped the side of his head. “Knowledge is power.”

“Knowledge is power?” Lifts-Many-Boulders parroted. “Doesn’t sound right. Dresmer lying? That sounds right.” He felt inclined to believe him, at least more than he did the dark elves; but a brief pondering later, Boulders was scratching at his neck and trying to think in the same way Rhillian did. The Dresmer did believe they were trying to teach Boulders something valuable. They must have if they were so damned determined to keep him at whatever he was doing. They did teach him how to work in a kwama mine, for instance. That must have its uses.

“So…” Boulders began, trying to piece it all together. “You say you can teach me reading. If I don’t read, I’m easy to control. But you’d control me into reading. How then would reading make me free?”

It was a fair question, and a clever one. Rhillian got the distinct impression that there was a keen natural intellect hiding in Boulders' head, buried beneath his ignorance and his past. "When you can't read, you can only learn the things the people around you want to know, or the things you can learn by yourself. But throughout history there have been many people who wrote down what they knew. They're dead now, but their books survive." Rhillian smiled and gestured widely with his arms. "You can learn everything about anything when you can read. All you need is the right book."

The needle-like pupils in his Boulders’ eyes dilated, like two black orbs floating in seafoam, betraying any inclination he might have to keep his desires hidden. The end of his tongue wet the edges of his mouth and the spines on his head were standing erect. Rhillian was dangling in front of him something that may yet be worthwhile; it sounded too good to be true, and whether it be like whatever bait the Dresmer used to lure him into whip’s range or an actual, well-intentioned promise, he felt apprehensive to find out.

“You will read to me later then?” He finally responded.

Rhillian nodded, then jabbed a thumb at the guildhouse and added, “I guess I’ll see you around then. Good luck my friend.”

Friend. Boulders cocked his head curiously. The people here in the heartland was much friendlier than those in places along the way. Morrowind, certainly not friendly; Eastmarch, barely friendlier. Between here and there, they’d rather see him keep on walking. Bruma wasn’t exactly welcoming, but there were diamonds in the rough that made it bearable. Diamonds like Rhillian. He waved farewell at the Imperial as he walked away and looked down at the others who were gathered before the post. There were many small ones he’d have to protect. He wondered if they, too, could be diamonds.
owo what's this?

Name: Lifts-Many-Boulders
Age: 28
Race: Argonian
Class: Tank

Portrait:


Sum your life so far into a single paragraph:
“Under the Ritual stars, my egg sat under the Hist Tree long time. Too long. Egg-Tender said I would die, but they dropped me into the sap pond. I was hatched in sap. I drank from the Hist until I was big and strong. Bigger and stronger than others, heal faster. Don’t remember much before dark elves came and take me. Killed others. Dresmer cruel, make me move things when I don’t want to. Move large rocks from kwama mines. Called me Lifts-Many-Boulders so much I can’t remember my first name no more. They liked to hit me because they knew I’ll heal fast. One nice Dres girl though. She took care of me and gave me food when I’m hungry, read to me. Her name was Shayla Dals. Then Argonians raided camp, start killing Dresmer. Nice girl freed me when the masters were distracted, so I picked her up and run into swamp. She saved me, so I save her. Dresmer yell and chase me. I kept going. Then they catch me and tell me to put her down. So I put her down. She runs. They try to hurt me, and I joined egg-brothers and egg-sisters in killing Dresmer. I killed lots, lots of Dresmer. Tore their arms off. Their heads. My people brought me back to Black Marsh. Shadowscales taught me how to use my strength. Easy ways to hurt people, easy to remember. Grabs, making arms and legs bend the other way. Then they let me join their raids on Dresmer. Sometimes I run first, get hit, break things, and then my egg-brothers and sisters come. Sometimes I hide under the water. I just did what they told me, just like Dresmer. Just like Dresmer hate all argonians, argonians hated all Dresmer. One raid I find nice girl again. Shayla Dals. Then egg-brother hurt her. Then I hurt egg-brother. Now tribe hates me, so I left. Never returned. Never will.”


What was the most difficult decision you've ever had to make?:
“Eat wamasu egg? Or eat kwama egg? No… no, eat cliff strider egg. No! Eat slaughterfish eggs! No… left the nice one… I left Shyra Dals.”


Tell me how other people would describe you?:
“I hear ‘giant fucker.’ And ‘holy shit.’ Others call me boots and laugh. I don’t get the joke.”


What are your outside interests?:
“People think I like to fight. I don’t. I like peace. I like to swim. I like fish. I like to grab things from high places for small people. I like to move big things for weak people. I like people reading to me. I like to carve wood with my claws, make them look like fish and people. I only fight because I have to.”


What are your greatest strengths?:
“Strong arms. Strong scales. Heal fast.”


What are your weaknesses?:
“Don’t like talk. Don’t like puzzles. Don’t like small doors.”


What are your aspirations for the future?:
“I want to join a family. I want to be useful to them. I want peace with them and protect them when there’s not. I want a tribe, far away from Dresmer.”


Why do you want to join this guild?:
“I am only good at one thing. Guess.”


What are your expectations of the guild?:
“Be my tribe.”





Skill LevelSkill
ExpertAthletics, Hand to Hand
AdeptBlock
Apprentice
NoviceRestoration*, Stealth





Magic SchoolSpells
DestructionN/A
ConjurationN/A
RestorationDespite his disconnection with his heritage, Boulder is extremely attuned to the Hist. He has a powerful command over his Histskin which allows him to quickly recover from injury. Alternatively, he can call forth a surge of the Hist's power to rapidly regenerate his wounds mid-battle at the cost of slowing down his passive recovery for the next couple days.
IllusionN/A
AlterationN/A





Equipment TypeItem
WeaponSome big ol’ clawed and meaty fists, and a massive maw full of teeth.
ArmourNo armor except for the hardened scales on Boulder’s massive body. He's at least seven feet tall and probably weighs a ton, and the rooster frills on the back of his head help him detect things underwater and regulate his body temperature. He wears some scrappy leather belts and harnesses to carry a couple of things with him.
Food/ProvisionsA variety of both raw and preserved (salted and smoked) seafood. Includes: salmon, roe, histcarp, mudcrab, and slaughterfish. He also has a pouch or two full of eggs that’s been padded with troll fat.
Alchemical IngredientsTechnically, the roe, histcarp, mudcrab chitin, slaughterfish scales, and troll fat would be alchemical ingredients if Boulder didn’t plan on eating them first.
MiscellaneousA collection of leather necklaces and bracelets with bone, shell, stone, and feather charms.

Name: Venwen
Age: 68
Race: Bosmer
Class: Jaqspur

Portrait:


Sum your life so far into a single paragraph: “You quite sure you’re ready for that? I find that most people aren’t prepared to hear ‘bout Bosmer life. It’s always ‘By the Gods’ this, an’ ‘Heavens have mercy’ that -- men an’ mer alike can’t seem to stomach the Old Ways of eating fallen enemies or hunting an’ raiding through the grahtwood boughs an’ picking off the ignorant invaders, much like how I can’t stomach the sight of them clutching their pearls. I’m from Malabal Tor, in the deepest wilds of Valenwood, an’ was a jaqspur of me tribe. All Bosmer are taught to shoot, hunt, an’ track as children, to trek the forest floors an’ canopies blindfolded. I took it a step further an’ became a jaqspur -- a ranger, a scout, a sniper, a hunter; call me what you will, but it means I’m the best of the best. Ever since I became tribeless though… let’s just say I needed a change of scenery, so I ventured north. I love me homeland more than anything else, but it’s also home to a lot of painful memories.”

What was the most difficult decision you've ever had to make?: “I come from a tribe that took the Green Pact seriously, but we were hunters first an’ foremost. So, in addition to Y’ffre, Z’en, and Baan Dar, we worshipped Hircine. We prayed to him so that he would guide our arrows to our quarries’ hearts, but eventually me people took their worship of Hircine too far. The Huntsman ought to be treated like any beast: to be respected at a distance. But when they threw themselves wholly an’ willingly into the beast’s maw, they spoke of Y’ffre’s gift as a trap and a cage. After such profanity, they desecrated their bodies with were-touched transformations and betrayed the Green Pact. So, I was forced to run to Silvenar and tell them what happened.

And then, with the help of the other jaqspurs, I slew me entire tribe one by one.”

Tell me how other people would describe you?: “I think I scare most people, y’know? You’d think they never seen a woman with sharp teeth an’ horn nubs before. They don’t like how I look at them -- of course I look at ‘em like fresh meat, I’m a predator. It’s what I do. If you aren’t sizin’ everyone you meet, you’re dead. But if you asked another Bosmer, they’d tell you I’m pretty cheerful an’ fun to be around -- the life of the party an’ all that. I don’t like being held down by rules, see? The only laws I follow are in the Green Pact.”

What are your outside interests?: “Aye, of course I’ve got interests! I’m not a savage. Let’s see… well, ask any Bosmer and they’ll tell you they love a good story. Song, poetry, spoken -- it’s like moon sugar to us. Though of course, a story with no point to it is also like moon sugar in that it’s empty calories an’ can make a mer go psychotically ballistic, so make sure it’s at least somewhat good! And parties! Been across Tamriel, and Bosmer always have the best parties. The secret is not in all the dress-up, but in the spirit! Even Sanguine would agree, I think. Otherwise? Rite of Theft.”

What are your greatest strengths?: “Optimism and confidence! Nothin’ brings me down. The circle of life is the way of things, right? Unlike some of your greenhorns, I’m close friends with death. It doesn’t bother me. Of course that doesn’t mean I don’t respect the dead, y’know? But death can break lesser men. If you mean me strengths in a scrap, then know this: I'm quicker than anyone you know, I can shoot farther, an’ if you can see me, it's because I’m allowing it.”

What are your weaknesses?: “Rules shmules. I work best when you let me work on me own terms. An’ sure, I don't much like the city, an’ I might not make friends easy, but there's more than one way to make a pig squeal. And I get called short a lot, even for a Bosmer. Makes intimidation a wee bit harder.”

What are your aspirations for the future?: “One day, I’d like to return home. Travellin’ the world is nice an’ all, but there’s no place like Valenwood an’ I’d like to bring those experiences home to me people. Until then? I’m just gonna live day by day doing as I will. Maybe I’ll become one of the Briars of Falinesti, or the personal bodyguard of the Silvenar or the Green Lady. Only time will tell! Maybe as a gift to said Green Lady, or to meself when I become her bodyguard, I can commission bone scale mail armor; I even did the math, see: one thousand knuckle bones from a hundred of my enemies for the rings, and chipping their skulls for the plates!”

Why do you want to join this guild?: “If you’re good at something, never do it for free. But I don’t like sittin’ in one place for too long, or goin’ out of me way to look for people I don’t particularly care for to run solo. I wanna stay busy doin’ what I’m good at without doin’ it outta charity.”

What are your expectations of the guild?: “Why, I expect to be shown a good time! Keep me busy, trust me instincts, an’ don’t judge me methods. They work and they get results. What else matters?”




Skill LevelSkill
Highly ProficientArchery
Moderately ProficientAcrobatics, Stealth, Athletics
Somewhat ProficientOne-Handed, Light Armor
NovicePickpocket






Magic SchoolSpell
DestructionN/A
ConjurationN/A
RestorationN/A
IllusionRacial Abilities: Forest Coupling, Charm Animal
AlterationN/A






Equipment TypeItem
WeaponBone longbow; string made from khajiit gut sinew, an obsidian shortsword, and various bone arrows.
ArmourLeather.
Food/ProvisionsJerky, dried fish, pickled eggs, waterskin, jagga, and rotmeth.
Alchemical IngredientsButterfly Wings, Bees, Slaughterfish Scales, and a Hagraven Claw.
Miscellaneous12 Septims, leather haversack, someone’s house key

Old Ghosts

I am followed by men
I cannot see.
Accompanied by a chilling breeze --
it congeals -- drips from my skin,
thick icy water,
before it becomes one
with the fog-filled air.
Hovering stagnant
above churching waters
where I cannot draw breath,
trapped by my own refuge.
I know they see me,
how I imagined them.
As a slug removed from his shallow shell,
as a paper skinned husk, charred by fire,
as an empty head, throat retching,
as his brains spill from his mouth.
My childish wit hides –
this time—
and this time, they seek.
I await a dying candle,
while I’m choked by the sea.


Poetry had always been one of Garil’s favorite forms of art. The potential to divine so many different meanings from multiple readings, to invoke different emotions, each so complex and for different reasons, ought to have been the sole intention of artistry. This was not to say he was by any right an artist himself, or was worthy of critiquing art, but if an artist could not appeal to the commoner, then they have failed, no? This poem did appeal to Garil, even if it did imbue him with an emotion akin to a child eating fruit seeds, who then worried that a tree would grow from their belly and sink their roots in. Garil had no reason to worry or feel fretful; the Kismet was supposed to have been captained by one of the most capable sailors of the western hemisphere, or at least one of the most popular. Any dread was sure to be placated upon the very sight of a ship with the grandest of sails hoisted upon its mast, and the cocksure panache of Captain Ravana. Unfortunately, this was not the case, even under the shadow of their grandeur. Perhaps then, he could hide in this shadow until the sense of trepidation comes to pass.

Those few hours ago seemed distant now, as the dunmer sat lonesome atop the railings alongside the main deck. He coiled his ankle around a taut length of rope along the outside hull should he lose his balance – something which he highly doubted would happen, but such precautions were second-nature by now – with his other foot flat against the railing as well, with one leg arched and securely in the crook of one of Garil’s arms to keep himself upright. He had already conducted his business with the captain earlier; such a man he knew to be wisened against any form of payments outside of down payments in gold, but the bank of Daggerfall was more than willing to accept Garil’s writ for a loan, which he used to generously pay the captain for a private cabin on board the ship. Quite literally, he spared no expense.

Unfortunately, once again, it wasn’t quite what he expected. Rather, it was exactly what he expected, but the lavish living wasn’t quite his style. It felt too rich, the bed was too soft, and it felt like a place where he didn’t belong. Never mind the fact that he felt as though it put a target on his back. So, upon more investigating of the vessel, he found the standard quarters to be more to his liking. The woven hammocks felt better against his back and for his posture, and he had little enough belongings to keep it underneath. Now it just came to whomever he could find that wanted the room. He wasn’t necessarily interested in making money from the ticket either, simply giving it away was fine with him.

It wasn’t like it costed him anything, anyways.

He had preoccupied himelf with staring at the horizon, watching the seagulls float in the breeze, and swelling his cheeks with a handful of seeds. Before long, other passengers were beginning to board the vessel. Some had apparently awoken and come crawling out from beneath the deck – had that Argonian always been here? Others, like an Imperial woman came aboard followed by her pet Khajiit, and soon enough, another Argonian came aboard. Strange. He didn’t think there’d be so many of them out this way – not that it was a problem, of course. Just peculiar. He didn’t have much time to stew on such thoughts until the Khajiit came stomping over his way. Perhaps stomping would be the wrong term, as the massive Cathay-raht was woefully at a clear disadvantage when his weight caused the wood beneath him to creak slightly. Perhaps the pads of his feet could silence the thuds had he not been wearing footwear.

Perhaps coming his way would also be the wrong phrasing, as he barely given him any notice and instead sat atop a barrel some few meters away. Garil craned his head around curiously to get a good appraisal of the Khajiit and his belongings. Older, wears fine clothes, but there was also a ruggedness to him that spoke “adventurer.” If he had been doing so if he’s been around, he surely had plenty of stories to tell. He surely must’ve been quite capable too. So, then, was he an escort to the ravishing woman he accompanied on board? She looked quite fanciful – this Khajiit must have been payed a pretty septim for the company. That meant there was a certain level of trust confided in him, which was nothing to scoff at, Garil figured.

“Say, friend,” Garil commented abruptly, his voice distorted by the mouthful of seeds and nuts, “you look like you’re on a business trip, are you not? Or are you just enjoying the weather? It’s really quite lovely today. Perhaps a fine honeymoon with the lass?”
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