Yeah. I don't know where Sowa has got to, or the others. I hope they haven't lost interest.
Don't worry though, Ceri, Aza and I have no lives at all.
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That's the idea. :D
Name: Sorcha 'Lipstick' Daveine
Age: 24
Gender: Female
Race: Breton
Appearance:
Job: Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood
Skills: Sorcha is a talented mage. She has learned how to manipulate the dead and has knowledge in the destruction arts. She has touched upon other magical talents, such as restoration and illusion but they wouldn't be her strengths. She has skill with a bow, and is currently studying alchemy; poisons in particular.
Personality: Sorcha enjoys the quiet. She is an introvert and rather than spend time with others she would prefer to study, this does not imply she is cold. Sorcha has been known to be very loyal and affectionate to those she deems worthy of her friendship. She chooses her words carefully and is not afraid of confrontation as long as she knows she can win. She has a fondness for desserts, sweetrolls in particular.
History: Born to an abusive household in Markarth, Sorcha found little protection within her home. Her birth mother would burn her with hot coals when she misbehaved and her step-father would stare at her as if she was a piece of meat. Much of the abuse she willingly chooses to forget except for the end, when she was thirteen.
The incident happened just before the break of dawn, Sorcha was awoken by weeping coming from the basement. It was not an uncommon occurence, but the girl found herself creeping down the wooden stairs and watching. Her mother pleaded for help as her step-father took her, stripped her naked and cut her. The words still repeat in her head amongst whimpering "Help me, help me, please help me,". And that is what Sorcha did.
When her stepfather fell he had multiple stab wounds. The first one was fatal enough but Sorcha had to be sure. There was a chilling silence as the blood decorated the floor, and then her mother screamed. She felt the hands wrap around her throat and the insults. Sorcha cried as she saw the look of pure revulsion in her mother. Insult after insult came and then finally, just as Sorcha was about to give up on life an arrow hit her mother.
The redguard spent the night with her, cleaning her from the blood that stained her body. He kept quiet through the night and allowed her to speak. Sorcha didn't speak, however, she cried. The next night the redguard took her away, and that was the best thing that could have happened to her.
The Dark Brotherhood were welcoming, and Sorcha was trained young. The Night Mother and the Dread Father were better parents than she was used to. She was not the only child to be taken to the dark brotherhood, and many orphans were taken as they were easier to train. Despite being only children, the training was tough and merciless, the weak died and the strong prevailed.
Sorcha's first kill came on her 18th birthday. It was a simple mark, in hindsight, but Sorcha had been nervous. She killed a shopkeeper in Whiterun in the middle of the day, she slashed her throat with a dagger. She had been so nervous she ran from Whiterun-- though she was never caught and no one recognized her. When she returned to the base in Dawnstar, her brothers and sisters decided they'd each have a trademark kill, to inspire the same fear that the Brotherhood used to excel at. Sorcha decided her's would be a kiss.
Her second mark was much more fun. It was the leader of a bandit camp, a nord man named Tarlok. He was big, vile and crueler than the rest of his crew. He reminded him of her stepfather and Sorcha had taken an instant dislike to him. However, he was very easy to seduce, and as her blade left his heart in the dead of night, her lipstick imprinted on his lips along with a spell to raise him from the dead. The other bandits would find more than they bargained for when they went to wake him, and it may even cost the poor fool his life.
Her legend continues to this day in Skyrim and Cyrodil, where people refer to her as the 'Lipstick Killer'. She has been sent to Cyrodil as speaker and a recruiter, in the hopes of expanding the Dark Brotherhood to its former infamy.
Starting Point: Bravil
Age: 24
Gender: Female
Race: Breton
Appearance:
Job: Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood
Skills: Sorcha is a talented mage. She has learned how to manipulate the dead and has knowledge in the destruction arts. She has touched upon other magical talents, such as restoration and illusion but they wouldn't be her strengths. She has skill with a bow, and is currently studying alchemy; poisons in particular.
Personality: Sorcha enjoys the quiet. She is an introvert and rather than spend time with others she would prefer to study, this does not imply she is cold. Sorcha has been known to be very loyal and affectionate to those she deems worthy of her friendship. She chooses her words carefully and is not afraid of confrontation as long as she knows she can win. She has a fondness for desserts, sweetrolls in particular.
History: Born to an abusive household in Markarth, Sorcha found little protection within her home. Her birth mother would burn her with hot coals when she misbehaved and her step-father would stare at her as if she was a piece of meat. Much of the abuse she willingly chooses to forget except for the end, when she was thirteen.
The incident happened just before the break of dawn, Sorcha was awoken by weeping coming from the basement. It was not an uncommon occurence, but the girl found herself creeping down the wooden stairs and watching. Her mother pleaded for help as her step-father took her, stripped her naked and cut her. The words still repeat in her head amongst whimpering "Help me, help me, please help me,". And that is what Sorcha did.
When her stepfather fell he had multiple stab wounds. The first one was fatal enough but Sorcha had to be sure. There was a chilling silence as the blood decorated the floor, and then her mother screamed. She felt the hands wrap around her throat and the insults. Sorcha cried as she saw the look of pure revulsion in her mother. Insult after insult came and then finally, just as Sorcha was about to give up on life an arrow hit her mother.
The redguard spent the night with her, cleaning her from the blood that stained her body. He kept quiet through the night and allowed her to speak. Sorcha didn't speak, however, she cried. The next night the redguard took her away, and that was the best thing that could have happened to her.
The Dark Brotherhood were welcoming, and Sorcha was trained young. The Night Mother and the Dread Father were better parents than she was used to. She was not the only child to be taken to the dark brotherhood, and many orphans were taken as they were easier to train. Despite being only children, the training was tough and merciless, the weak died and the strong prevailed.
Sorcha's first kill came on her 18th birthday. It was a simple mark, in hindsight, but Sorcha had been nervous. She killed a shopkeeper in Whiterun in the middle of the day, she slashed her throat with a dagger. She had been so nervous she ran from Whiterun-- though she was never caught and no one recognized her. When she returned to the base in Dawnstar, her brothers and sisters decided they'd each have a trademark kill, to inspire the same fear that the Brotherhood used to excel at. Sorcha decided her's would be a kiss.
Her second mark was much more fun. It was the leader of a bandit camp, a nord man named Tarlok. He was big, vile and crueler than the rest of his crew. He reminded him of her stepfather and Sorcha had taken an instant dislike to him. However, he was very easy to seduce, and as her blade left his heart in the dead of night, her lipstick imprinted on his lips along with a spell to raise him from the dead. The other bandits would find more than they bargained for when they went to wake him, and it may even cost the poor fool his life.
Her legend continues to this day in Skyrim and Cyrodil, where people refer to her as the 'Lipstick Killer'. She has been sent to Cyrodil as speaker and a recruiter, in the hopes of expanding the Dark Brotherhood to its former infamy.
Starting Point: Bravil
Sounds a bit sloppy/rushed, but accepted as I know you're capable. :p
I'll be introducing an assassin shortly, so hopefully you can play off that. I had planned to put her through this entire thing... but thought that would be more of a distraction.
Vladstone continued to harass the Khajiit until dawn. He had beaten her, stripped her and almost came close to ripping her tongue out, but he learned to control himself. When she had fallen unconscious repeatedly, he slowly took her off the torture rack and pulled her bleeding body into her cell. He kissed her soft head before he left and closed the cell door, locking it behind him.
He met the Count and Legate at morning. Vorenus was instantly put off his eggs and black bacon by the mere sight of the torturer. He was covered in blood and smelled like a man who refused to take baths. Vorenus pushed his breakfast away and looked at the man with uncertainty.
"She says nothing of importance, just screams and cries. She's a thief, was running from the city..., she claims to know nothing of the city."
"Do you believe her, Vladstone?" The Count asked, while swallowing a piece of warm bread.
"I do, sadly." He said as his eyes scanned upon the food on the table.
"Go on, sit." The Count smiled.
"What is to be done with the thief then?" Vorenus brought himself to ask. Vladstone laughed and smiled, showing his yellow teeth.
"I usually let thieves and murderers go to the mercy of Vladstone. It is an effective way to discourage crime," The count said with indifference. "Is that a problem?"
Vorenus was silent, half disgusted and yet half fascinated."Your house, your rules," he brought himself to say.
The surviving city-folk scurried into the castle as the legion had ordered. They huddled together in fear, dreading that their city would burn and the people who had yet to make it inside. There was crying, and from the balcony above the civilians looked up to see their Count looking down upon them. Terentius had clearly not been informed of the arrangement the legion had made. He whispered to his soldiers and soon enough the innocent men, women and children stopped arriving. The makeshift bridge to the city had been removed, and the legion and the civilians in the city were locked out.
From somewhere within the castle came a shriek.
"VICTORY! VICTORY!" The loud chorus was taken up from legion and surviving guardsmen. The dock had been cleared, and all around him lay dead Argonian's.
Won't-Back-Down pulled his axe out of an Argonian, whose body squirmed and twitched in return. He turned his attention to the slowly burning city and his smiled drifted from his lips. Victory never lasted long. When Windhelm fell, and Ulfric's rebellion died the celebrations were expected to last all through the night. They didn't, however. There were too many casualties to be happy with, and there was always work to be done.
"We can control the fire and keep it away from the market and the Inns," Kala told him as they walked towards the castle. "It has done some damage to the living estates already, and the chapel is lost,"
Won't-Back-Down acknowledge her with a nod. "Right, soldiers! To the castle! We'll break out the ale, thirsty work killing Thalmor scum!" There was laughter and applause.
"Last one to the castle can serve in their fucking smallclothes!" One soldier said, receiving more laughter.
When they reached the castle the Legate was met with a large line of soldiers. "Let us in! The battle is over! We've won!"
There was no reply. Won't-Back-Down pushed ahead to the front of the line. "Terentius! They speak the truth. The city is saved, now pull back the bridge. The sons and daughters of the empire are thirsty!"
Silence. Then the arrow sprouted out of Kala's head. The Legate looked across the large gap as several figures stood upon the castle ramparts. From across the large crevice there was a lone Altmer. He stepped forward, right to the edge and threw out his hand. The head rolled to the Legate's feet. It was Count Terentius. Soon after, many more heads showered down upon them. Men, women and even the heads of children soon littered their feet.
"I believe an introduction is in order, Legate." The Altmer spoke softly. Arrows were notched from above, ready to rain down once the word was given. How? How was there so many? Won't-Back-Down had been so careful, how had they got passed him? "My name is Lord Decimus. Lord of Dusk, and heir to the Aldmeri Dominion. I give you the option to surrender-- you can see what happened to the last person who denied my offer."
"Bastards!" An imperial cried out.
Decimus just smiled, "They ran as quick as they could, but the bridge had been pulled in. And one by one we cut them down."
"I will never bend the knee to you, Thalmor." Won't-Back-Down found himself saying on instinct.
"Listen carefully, pondscum." The elf spat. "This is twice I have met your forces and twice I have defeated you. Anvil will soon fall, and Cheydinhal after-- the Imperial city is already lost. There is no line of defense after you. Cyrodil is ours."
His heart skipped a beat. "Liar."
Decimus laughed cruelly. "You hadn't heard? Oh, what a tragedy. The high and mighty Won't-Back-Down, first Argonian legate, an honour, a privilege against these... men. I think it's time you take a new name, Pondscum."
"What would that be?" He didn't know why he was taking out his axe, but as he did he heard the swords draw from behind him. It would be a hopeless battle, there was no way into the castle.
"Six-Feet-Under." The Altmer threw his hand forward. Arrows and spells rained down.
I don't know, I like having a different bunch of personalities to play off, but if you feel we have enough then we have enough.
Damn, Athos. This is why you are the best at playing a dick.
And Aza/Sowa, are you guys still working on a post or do you want me to move things on?
And Aza/Sowa, are you guys still working on a post or do you want me to move things on?
I... do I want to read it?
So will we be opening a new interest check?
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