Stitches

End + Sleep

I don't know if me and Dino can get a post up within the week, so it might be better to go on without us then we'll catch up when we're free.

End + Sleep

Araigne Dorvina

Araigne Dorvina

You know... I think that everything, from problems to people, tend to work themselves out in the end. Just give them a little time and a bit of support.

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25 | Carnelian | No Mage-Eyes

P E R S O N A L I T Y

❖ Anxious
❖ Optimistic
❖ Patient
❖ Meticulous
❖ Sensitive

For someone from the Wainwaters, Araigne has no business being so nervous. She isn’t what you’d expect from those dark and gloomy marshes; adverse to conflict in all of its forms and with feelings more fragile than glass, the only thing that seems to be holding this gangly little Carnelian together against the all-encompassing desolation of Invernier is an ungodly amount of tolerance, forgiveness and hope. Most would call her naive or delusional but Araigne prefers to call it an “alternative outlook on the situation” and, as a result of her optimism, is best described as an overall amiable companion. A productive side effect of her patience is her ability to take on long and arduous tasks with something that isn’t quite determination but a sort of slow-and-steady approach. She has a LOT of patience and doesn’t mind if something takes a few days, weeks or months to complete.

A P P E A R A N C E

Averaging at around 6’3”, Araigne is much like her kin in the sense that she is tall and lithe. However the way she carries herself makes her seem a bit gangly and awkward, more like a newborn foal than a delicate spider. Her skin is pale and covered with black chitinous plating, only revealing the pointy elbows and sharp jawline and little flashes of sallow skin between the plates. She’s missing two toes - the third and her pinky - on her left foot and the plating is somewhat disfigured around the injury. Her eyes are a bright green.

Araigne’s beauty lies predominantly in her outfits. Most of them carry the practicality of a nomad but also have the professionalism and detail that only bespoke craftsmanship can replicate. She wears predominantly cloth and leather outfits with decoration and muted colours. Some jackets and tunics have delicate embroidery whilst others have stitching that’s only meant to keep the clothing together. The only constant within her remarkably varied wardrobe is the way they move on her body - each and every garment fits perfectly and flows across the stiff plates on her body in the most flattering way possible. here are some examples of varying degrees of complexity. (All of these links lead back to their respective artists.)

H I S T O R Y

Deep in the foggy marshes of the Wainwaters, a smattering of stilted houses were reconstructed, clustered together against the efertide. There had to be no more than 50 people living in this tiny, tiny ‘village’ tucked away amongst the gnarled treetrunks and rustling reeds. There was only one path - if you could call it a path - that duck and wove through the wilderness towards safety, towards the Tempesta. This settlement creatively named itself “Bogtown” and received no visitors save for the beasts that lurked on its borders who dared to attack.

Compared to the rest of Invernier, Bogtown was a very strange place to live in. An odd mixture of tribal, primitive survival and the remnants of high culture from the diverse origins of its settlers, mixed incongurously with the rural life of farmers and countrymen. There were fields of weird crops to eat and teams of hunters who knew how to swing from branch to branch to kill monsters and bring their carcasses back to the town. You had oracles and soothsayers alongside professors and philosophers, who all talked with blacksmiths and tailors. Most of them knew how to fight; all of them knew how to hide. Every month or so a team of scouts would take that winding road to The Outside and trade their (obviously rare and difficult to acquire) crops and furs with travelling merchants before tackling the insurmountable task of bringing carts full of supplies through a deadly swamp to their relatives.

Araigne Dorvina lived with her grandparents in one of the stilted huts in Bogtown, descendant of two craftsmen who mysteriously vanished one night when she was too young to remember their faces. Not that Araigne minded; she had her duties to take care of. Like every other craftsman in Bogtown, Araigne’s life consisted mainly of staying indoors and working tirelessly on her job because going outside meant plunging yourself into danger. Her Grandmother Trinira was an incredibly skilled seamstress who passed down all of her skills to her grand-daughter. Araigne learnt how to make incredible things out of cloth and yarn - boots that never lost their soles, tents that never leaked, big wooly sweaters so warm and colourful they could ALMOST hold back the efertide itself.

“The secret,” croaked her grandmother midway through embroidering a travelling cloak, “is knowing what the fabric likes. Put stitches just like so, speak to the cloth, cut it gently and follow my teachings. You’ll be a natural before you’re twenty.” Araigne listened and spoke words she did not understand to bits of fabric year in, year out. She memorised patterns and could knit in her sleep if she had to. A little over a decade of doing nothing but tailoring had that sort of effect on people; you learn much more in a much shorter period of time. It also had other effects, like instilling fear of ‘The Outside’ into her and making her godawful at social interactions. It made her weak and thin and pale, unfit for going outside in the first place. But most of all, it denied her the chance to learn from life - it made her naive and childish, idealistic and unable to accept the true horrors she lived in.

She was nineteen years old, three months away from her twentieth birthday, when a pack of beasts broke through Bogtown’s defences and started tearing down the stilts holding their houses in the air. Araigne did what she was told to do and she ran as fast as her bony legs could take her, tearing through the trees and wading through waist-deep pools of mud and silt. Other people were running with her, running away from her, away from the monsters in any direction they could get to. The scouts and hunters were bunched up in the town in order to stave off the beasts. They all split up and Araigne kept fleeing until she no longer heard the screams of her neighbours echo across the marshes.

Araigne kept running, then stumbling, then wandering until she was cold, hungry, afraid and lost. The Wainwaters weren’t kind on lost wanderers and Araigne knew this all too well. She also felt the chill of night start to settle in as the sun sank under the Wainwater’s dense canopy. She knew of the efertide and she knew that if she did not find light or shelter soon then she’d surely die. Just as the orangey glow on sunset started to dim, a flickering fire roared into life a few leagues off from her position. She eagerly approached it, oblivious to the threat of a trap. What she found was, to some, much worse than death.

Shuffling around the impromptu campsite was a short, stocky goblin in heavy robes wearing a dark cowl over his head. He looked up briefly when Araigne stumbled into view and ultimately ignored her to continue whatever it was he was doing to prepare for night. Araigne wasn’t afraid of goblins, nor was she frightened by his mage-eyes. She begged and pleaded with the warlock to let her into his tiny tent, promising she’ll be extra quiet and stay out of his way as much as a six-foot Carnelian could in a goblin-sized tent. It took some convincing but the last thing this hooded stranger needed was a missing local last seen near his campsite, so he relented and let her stay the night.

By dawn he pegged onto the fact Araigne was utterly useless and wouldn’t last two minutes on her own. Since he was also searching for settlements within the Wainwaters for reasons he would not disclose, the Goblin took Araigne along with him to find her home again. They wandered for weeks and weeks, but all the shacks and hovels they came across weren’t even remotely familiar to the Carnelian. Almost a month had passed when the two travellers surprisingly found themselves at the very edge of the swamp. Araigne was understandably terrified; she had been born and raised in damp, muggy bogs surrounded by tall trees. Everything outside of the Wainwaters was too bright, too sparse and open. It put her on edge. However with no way to go back to where she came from and no idea where to go from here, she had to once again beg the mysterious Goblin to keep her around for just a little while longer.

It was actually during their trip to a nearby village that the Goblin finally picked up on Araigne’s knitting, some weeks after she traded some herbs in for a ball of yarn and some knitting needles. He noticed what he thought to be an incantation flowing out of Araigne’s mouth as she merrily stitched away and took an interest in whatever it was she was making. She proudly announced that she could do things with fabric that others could not, and was making a pair of woolen socks that dry really quickly. All of a sudden Araigne’s travelling companion was more than happy to keep her around, provided she worked hard at making new clothes - enchanted or otherwise - and he’d manage all those difficult financial affaires for her so she didn’t have to worry about money.

Initially, the goblin warlock fleeced Araigne and used her talents for his own benefit. He took the lion’s share of the profits and bought Araigne all she needed but rarely gave her enough to buy what she wanted, whilst he indulged himself on the back of her hard work. Then one day, out of the blue, Araigne received a sudden and unexpected pay rise from her ‘boss’. His mood gradually shifted; he was less scathing and rude to Araigne as the days passed by and even went so far as to defend her from time to time. He started to treat her less like a labourer and more like a person.

They still travel together to this day. Araigne is the sales front; her tailoring can be done weeks in advance in standardised sizes for the general public, or she can make more money by taking on commission work from well-to-do individuals. The goblin works behind the scenes, managing the money, ordering supplies and ensuring they have enough to make it to the next settlement.

I N V E N T O R Y

(NB: This list is exclusive to what she carries on her person at all times. She USUALLY has access to a small wagon containing mediocre/good quality tailoring materials such as leather straps, threads, large rolls of fabric, shoe soles, etc. Whether or not she’s able to access said wagon all the time in the RP depends on what we’re doing.)

❖ Wolf-bone carved knitting needles
❖ Blunt one-handed Iron Sword
❖ Small warped Wooden Shield
❖ Pincushion with a myriad of hat pins and needles of various sizes poked into it
❖ Roll of sturdy thread
❖ Rations
❖ Large tent with bedroll
❖ Small ball of yarn
❖ Rags for patches/quick repairs
❖ Several outfits
❖ Money (Small amount for necessities)
❖ Caesar's cigars

O T H E R

❖ Owns a mountaineering yak which Araigne affectionately calls ‘Gertrude’. It carries her tailoring supplies in a small wagon behind it, with some materials strapped to the saddle. (It is too small for Araigne to ride.)
❖ Whilst not wholly illiterate, reading is more of a ‘work in progress’ for Araigne. She cannot understand longer words and has difficulty focusing on small print.

The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion - Crimson Skies

Basil D'ashar

Character Name:

Basil D’ashar

 
Age:

36

 
Race:

Redguard

 
Sex:

Female

 
Birthsign:

The Steed

 

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Specialisation:

Mixed

 
Class:

Alchemist

 
Skills:

• Expert Alchemy
• Journeyman Blunt One-Handed
• Journeyman Light Armour
• Apprentice Acrobatics
• Apprentice Mercantile
• Apprentice Foraging
• Apprentice Leather/Fabric-Work

 

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Appearance:

Basil stands at a fairly average height of 5’7”. Her physique fluctuates between skinny and muscular, revealing a lifestyle of poor nutrition and hard labour. Her skin is surprisingly dark, even for a Redguard, and patches of it shine with greyish scars and burn marks. It is weathered - coarse hands, ashen elbows, cracked feet and thin lines on the face. Her breasts are small, her bottom is flat. She’s missing a pinky toe on her left foot.
 
Her face, like her body, is a mixture of bone and muscle. She has fairly prominent cheekbones and a pronounced brow alongside her thick black eyebrows. Her eyes are almond shaped, adorned with faint crow’s feet and eye bags. Unlike the dark brown of a typical Redguard, Basil’s eyes are a brilliant yellow-green colour. Her nose is wide and has been broken before; her lips are full and typically pushed into a faint smile. Basil doesn’t have any hair - it is shaved off.
 
When it comes to clothing, Basil mourns the lack of variety. Aside from her mixed leather and chainmail armour she owns a set of travelling robes and a spare pair of boots. The colours she wears are muted and earthy. She shows no visible piercings and wears no jewellery, save for a sabre tooth on an old and grimy piece of rope around her neck.

 
Personality:

Basil tends to do the right thing; not out of a moral obligation but more due to the fear  regret. In other words, she doesn’t have to help other people but feels compelled to or else she’ll be guilty for weeks. This behaviour is tempered by a wariness learnt over time but it ultimately won’t stop her from giving people the benefit of a doubt.
 
Basil is an inquisitive soul who enjoys learning and discovering new things. This also makes it easier for her to make new friends as she genuinely listens to what they have to say. Unfortunately, this curiosity can also lead her into some fairly difficult situations to get out of and she is well aware of her limits and unafraid of asking for help if she needs it.

 
Backstory:

The D’ashar family may not be the most wealthy nor the most powerful, but they have a tendency to spread out across the continent and breed like rabbits. Basil was born and raised in the port town of Rihad, just off the border of Cyrodiil. Even before she understood what was going on she was able to recognise that she had an absurd amount of relatives and a lot of them had travelled a long way to give gifts and congratulate her mother Danari. This close-knit yet far-reaching family network would play a powerful influence on Basil as she grew older, but we’ll get back to that.
 
The port is a prosperous and wealthy place to live in and Basil grew up as a healthy and happy child. This did not stop her parents from instilling some discipline and a good work ethic; her mother had Basil work at the docks whilst her father, Hamud, was often absent due to military service. Life was incredibly easy and enjoyable during her younger years. She had many friends, multiple teenage crushes, and went to a multitude birthday parties and celebrations.
 
But as Basil grew into her late teens, the question of work began to press upon her mind. She was at a loss on what to do; part of her wanted to stay in Rihad and remain a dock worker simply because she knew how to do it. Another part of her wished to hit the road like her cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents, but she knew that she was not strong enough to look after herself. Basil’s kindheartedness also swayed her towards helping others, a habit she formed early on but wished to expand upon...but becoming a healer was practically unheard of in Rihad and she knew that she did not have the knack for learning magic.
 
When one of her second cousins started talking about an old friend of a friend who worked as an alchemist, Basil tracked down the man and begged him to take her as an apprentice. It was a craft which was versatile enough to be used to help others and protect herself. The ingredients were easy enough to find right now as most of them were locally sourced, but as her aptitude in Alchemy increased she would have to be able to travel further and further to find what she needs for that next potion. Basil believed that she would be able to teach herself how to fight and eventually leave to go into Cyrodiil.
 
After a few years of apprenticeship, she had learnt everything that her mentor could teach her. It took a couple of weeks, a big goodbye party and a lot of tears to finally part from the family home. On the road, Basil truly began experiencing the hardships of living outdoors which set her back more than the fear of wolves and bandits ever could. She was a few months into her travels and barely made it into Cyrodiil, too nervous to leave from her well-established campsite in the middle of a forest.
 
That is, of course, until a random Legionnaire staggered through the woods whilst Basil was foraging for food. She watched him incoherently call out to her, gurgle, then crumple to the floor. Shocked and afraid of abandoning him, Basil dragged the man back to her campsite and nursed him back to health. She discovered that the man was called Cassius, and he was part of a large squadron of Legionnaires who regularly patrolled Cyrodiil and kept the outer regions safe from local threats. Basil sensed her opportunity to finally escape the forest under the guard of a real life soldier, so she offered to help him find his squadron again.
 
After a couple of months of looking after Cassius Basil had made a good friend out of him. She was unwilling to leave but knew she wasn’t nearly battle-ready. Luckily, Cassius’ superiors informed her that being part of the Legion was not reserved solely for footsoldiers; Basil could be hired on as an unofficial aide, working as their platoon’s alchemist to supply potions for their field medics. The possibility of 80 soldiers keeping her safe and the ability to learn some actual combat training whilst being paid were more than enough to persuade Basil to take on a contract. She’s been working with these soldiers for ten years now.

 
Spells:

N/A

 
Inventory:

At least 2 hip flasks of potable water
Basic dried herbs and reagents to make 5 potions
Small pewter cauldron
Spare clothes
One-Handed sword
Flint and steel
Old book, pages used for kindling
Simple repair kit (needles, waxed thread, bunches of leather straps/patches, rags)
Tent and bedroll
1 weeks’ worth of rations
2 basic healing potions
1 vial basic poison
1 vial basic antidote for aforementioned poison (just in case!)
5 empty vials
Mortar and pestle
Alchemy Journal
Botanical textbook
Ink and Quill
200 septims

End + Sleep

They have this gloriously unearthly look about them. I'm hooked on the designs, both of them! However I thought the three-joint limbs would produce some digitigrade legs though. I'd love to take a stab at drawing Araigne now, one with how I thought she'd look and one with how she'd actually look using these sketches as reference, if that'd be okay?

End + Sleep

I'm going to ask a few questions about magic.

First off, what is the threshold before mage-eyes occur? For reference, my character sometimes casts simple-level spells whilst tailoring to create enchanted garments. She doesn't do this with everything she makes and I assume the enchantments won't be too potent but hopefully long-lasting - things like tent canvases which don't leak, silk that keeps it's sheen for longer. Given the simplicity of the spells, their low energy level and the infrequency of her casting them, I put her down as no mage-eyes for the time being. After all, she only has to cast the spell once on the needle or the thread she'll use for the cloth, and most handmade clothing can take months to complete.

But what triggers it? A certain number of spells that have to be cast in order to produce the warping? Could someone go for years only casting a handful of spells then one day go 'over the limit' and get mage-eyes? Or does it work as a sign of overuse, meaning people who only cast spells once every few months can go their entire lives without a hint of mage-eye on them? I'm taking it as a given that casting advanced/mighty spells, even on the rare occasion, puts you at high risk for eye warping.

EDIT: Decided to put the CS on this post too in order to avoid double posting. Enjoy!

Araigne Dorvina

Araigne Dorvina

You know... I think that everything, from problems to people, tend to work themselves out in the end. Just give them a little time and a bit of support.

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25 | Carnelian | No Mage-Eyes

P E R S O N A L I T Y

❖ Anxious
❖ Optimistic
❖ Patient
❖ Meticulous
❖ Sensitive

For someone from the Wainwaters, Araigne has no business being so nervous. She isn’t what you’d expect from those dark and gloomy marshes; adverse to conflict in all of its forms and with feelings more fragile than glass, the only thing that seems to be holding this gangly little Carnelian together against the all-encompassing desolation of Invernier is an ungodly amount of tolerance, forgiveness and hope. Most would call her naive or delusional but Araigne prefers to call it an “alternative outlook on the situation” and, as a result of her optimism, is best described as an overall amiable companion. A productive side effect of her patience is her ability to take on long and arduous tasks with something that isn’t quite determination but a sort of slow-and-steady approach. She has a LOT of patience and doesn’t mind if something takes a few days, weeks or months to complete.

A P P E A R A N C E

Averaging at around 6’3”, Araigne is much like her kin in the sense that she is tall and lithe. However the way she carries herself makes her seem a bit gangly and awkward, more like a newborn foal than a delicate spider. Her skin is pale and covered with black chitinous plating, only revealing the pointy elbows and sharp jawline and little flashes of sallow skin between the plates. She’s missing two toes - the third and her pinky - on her left foot and the plating is somewhat disfigured around the injury. Her eyes are a bright green.

Araigne’s beauty lies predominantly in her outfits. Most of them carry the practicality of a nomad but also have the professionalism and detail that only bespoke craftsmanship can replicate. She wears predominantly cloth and leather outfits with decoration and muted colours. Some jackets and tunics have delicate embroidery whilst others have stitching that’s only meant to keep the clothing together. The only constant within her remarkably varied wardrobe is the way they move on her body - each and every garment fits perfectly and flows across the stiff plates on her body in the most flattering way possible. here are some examples of varying degrees of complexity. (All of these links lead back to their respective artists.)

H I S T O R Y

Deep in the foggy marshes of the Wainwaters, a smattering of stilted houses were reconstructed, clustered together against the efertide. There had to be no more than 50 people living in this tiny, tiny ‘village’ tucked away amongst the gnarled treetrunks and rustling reeds. There was only one path - if you could call it a path - that duck and wove through the wilderness towards safety, towards the Tempesta. This settlement creatively named itself “Bogtown” and received no visitors save for the beasts that lurked on its borders who dared to attack.

Compared to the rest of Invernier, Bogtown was a very strange place to live in. An odd mixture of tribal, primitive survival and the remnants of high culture from the diverse origins of its settlers, mixed incongurously with the rural life of farmers and countrymen. There were fields of weird crops to eat and teams of hunters who knew how to swing from branch to branch to kill monsters and bring their carcasses back to the town. You had oracles and soothsayers alongside professors and philosophers, who all talked with blacksmiths and tailors. Most of them knew how to fight; all of them knew how to hide. Every month or so a team of scouts would take that winding road to The Outside and trade their (obviously rare and difficult to acquire) crops and furs with travelling merchants before tackling the insurmountable task of bringing carts full of supplies through a deadly swamp to their relatives.

Araigne Dorvina lived with her grandparents in one of the stilted huts in Bogtown, descendant of two craftsmen who mysteriously vanished one night when she was too young to remember their faces. Not that Araigne minded; she had her duties to take care of. Like every other craftsman in Bogtown, Araigne’s life consisted mainly of staying indoors and working tirelessly on her job because going outside meant plunging yourself into danger. Her Grandmother Trinira was an incredibly skilled seamstress who passed down all of her skills to her grand-daughter. Araigne learnt how to make incredible things out of cloth and yarn - boots that never lost their soles, tents that never leaked, big wooly sweaters so warm and colourful they could ALMOST hold back the efertide itself.

“The secret,” croaked her grandmother midway through embroidering a travelling cloak, “is knowing what the fabric likes. Put stitches just like so, speak to the cloth, cut it gently and follow my teachings. You’ll be a natural before you’re twenty.” Araigne listened and spoke words she did not understand to bits of fabric year in, year out. She memorised patterns and could knit in her sleep if she had to. A little over a decade of doing nothing but tailoring had that sort of effect on people; you learn much more in a much shorter period of time. It also had other effects, like instilling fear of ‘The Outside’ into her and making her godawful at social interactions. It made her weak and thin and pale, unfit for going outside in the first place. But most of all, it denied her the chance to learn from life - it made her naive and childish, idealistic and unable to accept the true horrors she lived in.

She was nineteen years old, three months away from her twentieth birthday, when a pack of beasts broke through Bogtown’s defences and started tearing down the stilts holding their houses in the air. Araigne did what she was told to do and she ran as fast as her bony legs could take her, tearing through the trees and wading through waist-deep pools of mud and silt. Other people were running with her, running away from her, away from the monsters in any direction they could get to. The scouts and hunters were bunched up in the town in order to stave off the beasts. They all split up and Araigne kept fleeing until she no longer heard the screams of her neighbours echo across the marshes.

Araigne kept running, then stumbling, then wandering until she was cold, hungry, afraid and lost. The Wainwaters weren’t kind on lost wanderers and Araigne knew this all too well. She also felt the chill of night start to settle in as the sun sank under the Wainwater’s dense canopy. She knew of the efertide and she knew that if she did not find light or shelter soon then she’d surely die. Just as the orangey glow on sunset started to dim, a flickering fire roared into life a few leagues off from her position. She eagerly approached it, oblivious to the threat of a trap. What she found was, to some, much worse than death.

Shuffling around the impromptu campsite was a short, stocky goblin in heavy robes wearing a dark cowl over his head. He looked up briefly when Araigne stumbled into view and ultimately ignored her to continue whatever it was he was doing to prepare for night. Araigne wasn’t afraid of goblins, nor was she frightened by his mage-eyes. She begged and pleaded with the warlock to let her into his tiny tent, promising she’ll be extra quiet and stay out of his way as much as a six-foot Carnelian could in a goblin-sized tent. It took some convincing but the last thing this hooded stranger needed was a missing local last seen near his campsite, so he relented and let her stay the night.

By dawn he pegged onto the fact Araigne was utterly useless and wouldn’t last two minutes on her own. Since he was also searching for settlements within the Wainwaters for reasons he would not disclose, the Goblin took Araigne along with him to find her home again. They wandered for weeks and weeks, but all the shacks and hovels they came across weren’t even remotely familiar to the Carnelian. Almost a month had passed when the two travellers surprisingly found themselves at the very edge of the swamp. Araigne was understandably terrified; she had been born and raised in damp, muggy bogs surrounded by tall trees. Everything outside of the Wainwaters was too bright, too sparse and open. It put her on edge. However with no way to go back to where she came from and no idea where to go from here, she had to once again beg the mysterious Goblin to keep her around for just a little while longer.

It was actually during their trip to a nearby village that the Goblin finally picked up on Araigne’s knitting, some weeks after she traded some herbs in for a ball of yarn and some knitting needles. He noticed what he thought to be an incantation flowing out of Araigne’s mouth as she merrily stitched away and took an interest in whatever it was she was making. She proudly announced that she could do things with fabric that others could not, and was making a pair of woolen socks that dry really quickly. All of a sudden Araigne’s travelling companion was more than happy to keep her around, provided she worked hard at making new clothes - enchanted or otherwise - and he’d manage all those difficult financial affaires for her so she didn’t have to worry about money.

Initially, the goblin warlock fleeced Araigne and used her talents for his own benefit. He took the lion’s share of the profits and bought Araigne all she needed but rarely gave her enough to buy what she wanted, whilst he indulged himself on the back of her hard work. Then one day, out of the blue, Araigne received a sudden and unexpected pay rise from her ‘boss’. His mood gradually shifted; he was less scathing and rude to Araigne as the days passed by and even went so far as to defend her from time to time. He started to treat her less like a labourer and more like a person.

They still travel together to this day. Araigne is the sales front; her tailoring can be done weeks in advance in standardised sizes for the general public, or she can make more money by taking on commission work from well-to-do individuals. The goblin works behind the scenes, managing the money, ordering supplies and ensuring they have enough to make it to the next settlement.

I N V E N T O R Y

(NB: This list is exclusive to what she carries on her person at all times. She USUALLY has access to a small wagon containing mediocre/good quality tailoring materials such as leather straps, threads, large rolls of fabric, shoe soles, etc. Whether or not she’s able to access said wagon all the time in the RP depends on what we’re doing.)

❖ Wolf-bone carved knitting needles
❖ Blunt one-handed Iron Sword
❖ Small warped Wooden Shield
❖ Pincushion with a myriad of hat pins and needles of various sizes poked into it
❖ Roll of sturdy thread
❖ Rations
❖ Large tent with bedroll
❖ Small ball of yarn
❖ Rags for patches/quick repairs
❖ Several outfits
❖ Money (Small amount for necessities)

O T H E R

❖ Owns a mountaineering yak which Araigne affectionately calls ‘Gertrude’. It carries her tailoring supplies in a small wagon behind it, with some materials strapped to the saddle. (It is too small for Araigne to ride.)
❖ Whilst not wholly illiterate, reading is more of a ‘work in progress’ for Araigne. She cannot understand longer words and has difficulty focusing on small print.

End + Sleep

I wouldn't have the GM wait on me or my friend at all. If the IC's ready, post it; we'll catch up and find a way to join in.

The Elder Scrolls V S: Sentinel

Ah I'm sorry guys, this looks interesting but I don't think the character I had in mind would fit here. Thanks anyway and good luck!

The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion - Crimson Skies

We decided to cut it before any decisive action is made by our 80 soldiers, but there's our introductory post. Short and sweet for now. I think it'd be better if you took control of the platoon @MiddleEarthRoze and we'll be happy to work via PM still to figure out what our two characters will need to join the group.

The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion - Crimson Skies

Collab - Basil and Cassius

Somewhere in the grasslands just north of Kvatch a platoon of 80 Imperial soldiers had set up an encampment, utterly oblivious to the chaos happening just south of their position. It was a scattering of red tents and heavily-armoured guards. From within, the hustle and bustle of everyday life could be seen and heard; various men and women wandered from tent to tent. The resident blacksmith had set up his rudimentary smithy on the outskirts, which released a plume of greyish smoke into the air. Stablehands tended to the horses which pulled their supply cart.

The alchemy tent was a cacophony of clinking glasses and roughly slammed books. The platoon’s resident alchemist, a middle-aged Redguard woman by the name of Basil, was in a sour mood and she took it out on her belongings. Just outside of her tent a large cast-iron cauldron was set over a small fire with a thin reddish liquid simmering within. There were old logs arranged outside of most tents to work as impromptu stools and one of the armoured foot soldiers was hunkered down near Basil’s tent, cleaning his boots.

“You want to talk about it?” Cassius spoke in Redguard woman’s direction, his eyes and most of his attention still fixed on wiping at his boots.

Basil paused and pretended to read her potion book as her face contorted into a thoughtful scowl instead of a grumpy one. She did not answer the question, but spoke instead; “I thought it was our job to protect people.”

“It is, but it’s also our job to follow orders. Orders that are most of the time more important when carried out undelayed.” Cassius paused. He rested the damp cloth on the boot in his lap to look up at the woman, his hands planted on his thighs. Basil responded to his actions by slowing down a bit, if only to glower at him over the cauldron.

“They needed help, Cass. We could’ve at least tracked down their camp for them! Why’s the platoon always in such a big hurry? I highly doubt Kvatch has changed since the last time we saw it, and it’s not as if Anvil’s about to suddenly disappear on us.” She tossed a bulbous root into the cauldron ferociously and made a ‘tch!’ noise when it splashed onto her heavy leather gloves. “80 soldiers, a handful of medics, an alchemist and a blacksmith walk into a village of raided villagers and decide to fuck right off before the sun sets…” she muttered venomously under her breath.

“We’ve sent a notice to other nearby legions that aren’t on direct orders, as far as -we’re- concerned they’ve already been robbed. Whether we helped them now, or another legion helps them in a few days.” Cassius spoke, attention still directed at Basil. In silence he lifted the polished boot off his lap and placed it beside the other one.

Basil opened her mouth, narrowed her eyes, shut her mouth, clenched her jaw and hissed out a sigh through her nostrils. “I hate it when you’re right,” she snapped and used the last vestiges of her anger to stir a rapidly thickening concoction in the cauldron.

Cassius couldn’t help but crack a smirk at Basil’s admit of defeat. Without another word he stood up and patted his hands off on his trousers just as a bedraggled and bloodstained man came staggering through the plains calling for help.

The survivor collapsed to his knees near the southern entrance to the campsite. He was covered in soot; his armour was singed but the wolf’s head on the tunic could still be recognisable as a member of Kvatch’s city watch. He cradled his left forearm into the bloodsoaked fabric. Upon closer inspection, it was apparent that the blood on his garments was his own and a massive gash wound tore through the muscle and blood vessels just above his wrist. “P-please,” he sobbed with pain and fear, “the city...it’s overwhelmed-...monsters!”

End + Sleep

My friend directed me to this RP and it looks spectacular. I don't suppose there are two more spots left?