Strom
Dragons Daemons and Witchbreeds Oh no!
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Fandom 3E 433 The Oblivion Crisis
- Thread starter Strom
- Start date
cremora
Spooky Scary Skeletons!
KVATCH - MORNING
Weather - Storm clouds rumble overhead, no rain yet
Atmosphere - Ambient and warm even with weather
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Through the angry roar of the clouds above, Akishame heard the creaking of a cart wheel behind her. Hefting her leather pack up onto her shoulder, she turned to face the noise and came face to face with
http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Oblivion:Ilav_Dralgonerhttp://www.uesp.net/wiki/Oblivion:Ilav_DralgonerIlav Dralgoner
http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Oblivion:Ilav_Dralgonerhttp://www.uesp.net/wiki/Oblivion:Ilav_Dralgoner, one of the Priests from the Chapel of Akatosh. "
Good 'morrrow, m'lady
," he said warmly. "
Blessings of Akatosh upon you. Spare a coin for the supplicants of Kvatch
?"
Akishame shook her head curtly. "
This one is off to do her good deed directly. She can spare you a loaf of sweet bread, though. Here
," she lifted a loaf from one of her pouches and handed it off to the holyman. "
Hail
," she waved him off and headed for the town square. The morning air was brisk with the scent of rain, but so far none had decided to fall. '
Thank Sithis the storm holds out
,' she thought to herself, praying it would stay until evening, when she could retreat back to her bed at the Inn.
At the town plaza she set up her stall, peddling herbs, potions, food and the rare jewelry piece. Weedum-Ja sauntered by as she did every morning. "
Blessings upon you, marsh-sister
," she greeted, teeth bared in a reptilian smile. "
One honey-loaf and some Mandrake Root tea please. I seem to have come down with Ataxia and it ails me so
." Akishame handed over the goods with a returning grin and took the three Septims as payment.
Before her patron could get away Akishame asked, "
Have you seen any A'tek in down recently, Weedum? This one is expecting them any day now
." She had thought they'd be in town two days past, but the storm hanging over them now was likely the reason they had been late in the first place.
Weedum tilted her head in the telltale lizard manner, nodding thoughtfully. She nodded again, then frowned. "
I have not, Akishame, but I will keep a look out. Are you going hunting again
?"
"
Yes. This one needs more furs and meats for winter. It is long coming and stores are low
." She picked up one of the rings she was peddling and twirled it between her fingers idly, gazing up at the clouds with an expression of absent thought. She shook her head after a moment, then glanced back at Weedum-Ja. "
Please tell them to come see me urgently if you see them, marsh-sister. Thank you
."
She nodded her assent, looked around to see if anyone was watching, and confident there was no one, raised a fist to her chest. "
Hail Sithis, sister
."
Akishame smiled faintly and did the same. "
Praise the Dread Father
."
Attachments
Strom
Dragons Daemons and Witchbreeds Oh no!
The company of A'tek marched steadily through Cyrodiil avoiding the main roads and those who traveled upon them. Their envoy numbered a mere fifteen, this did not sit well with Sutara as their peoples strength was in numbers. Yet unfortunately that was as many as they could convince the Imperials to allow within their borders. On one occasion they had been stopped by Imperial patrols who were suspicious of their activity luckily the situation had been diffused without bloodshed. Continuing their journey through the wilderness they finally arrived at their appointed location. The Imperial city of Kvatch.
City walls and crowded streets disturbed the A'tek and it had always confused Sutara as to why anyone would want to wall themselves into such confining spaces. Ordering his brothers and sisters to set up their camp in the wooded area just south west of Kvatch he began setting up his own tent and preparing a cook fire for the day. Two of his number had left to go hunting for the nights meal while the rest established their small encampment. Once his quarters were set Sutara called Met over, his life long friend and trusted second.
"We must inform the Count of our arrival, we are already one moon late." he said turning his face to the wind, a slightly worried expression crossing his face. "A storm approaches as well Brother, this does not bode well."
"You worry too much my friend, I warned you about letting that talk from the Wise Ones getting to your head. It is merely a rain storm, nothing more. Come, let us attend to the task at hand." Met patted him on the shoulder and they walked off to the city nodding to the two warriors standing guard to the entrance into their camp.
Once through the gates the two made best speed to get through the streets. They passed several merchants peddling their wares and drawing several wary looks from the citizens who had never seen their ilk before. After several twists and turns Sutara put his hand to Met''s chest halting him. He sniffed the air and sorted through the menagerie of smells to pick out the one significant scent that stood out among the rest.
"Do you smell that? Wolf blood. there is another here." he began to take off at a quickened pace seeking out the owner of the Gift of Hircine.
As they came closer he laid his eyes on the Argonian merchant. The pair approached her with interest and greeted their estranged blood sister.
"Greetings Blood-Sister, we greet you honoring the Pact of Old." Sutara placed his hand over his heart and nodded his head slightly, Met doing the same. Referencing their age old alliance from the civil war when the A'tek fought for the Ebonheart Pact.
City walls and crowded streets disturbed the A'tek and it had always confused Sutara as to why anyone would want to wall themselves into such confining spaces. Ordering his brothers and sisters to set up their camp in the wooded area just south west of Kvatch he began setting up his own tent and preparing a cook fire for the day. Two of his number had left to go hunting for the nights meal while the rest established their small encampment. Once his quarters were set Sutara called Met over, his life long friend and trusted second.
"We must inform the Count of our arrival, we are already one moon late." he said turning his face to the wind, a slightly worried expression crossing his face. "A storm approaches as well Brother, this does not bode well."
"You worry too much my friend, I warned you about letting that talk from the Wise Ones getting to your head. It is merely a rain storm, nothing more. Come, let us attend to the task at hand." Met patted him on the shoulder and they walked off to the city nodding to the two warriors standing guard to the entrance into their camp.
Once through the gates the two made best speed to get through the streets. They passed several merchants peddling their wares and drawing several wary looks from the citizens who had never seen their ilk before. After several twists and turns Sutara put his hand to Met''s chest halting him. He sniffed the air and sorted through the menagerie of smells to pick out the one significant scent that stood out among the rest.
"Do you smell that? Wolf blood. there is another here." he began to take off at a quickened pace seeking out the owner of the Gift of Hircine.
As they came closer he laid his eyes on the Argonian merchant. The pair approached her with interest and greeted their estranged blood sister.
"Greetings Blood-Sister, we greet you honoring the Pact of Old." Sutara placed his hand over his heart and nodded his head slightly, Met doing the same. Referencing their age old alliance from the civil war when the A'tek fought for the Ebonheart Pact.
Amornar
The Night Lord
"Harder boy! Those bellows won't fan the flames on their own!" The large Nord boomed through the smokey workshop at the young imperial adolescent pumping the forge's bellows, sweat dripping from his still yet unbearded face. With expert skill and keen eyes the smith removed the glowing blade from the coals, striking it with the worn hammer in his left hand again the cold, unyielding iron of his anvil. Sparks shot across the room as each blow struck with equal mix of grace and power. Lifting the blade up to the air the nordic man inspected his work. "Curse this dirty Colovian iron....what I wouldn't give for some clean northern steel." His whispers trailed off, drowned by the roar of the furnace and the rush of the bellows. For several long minutes the smith worked in cycles, hammering in a shower of sparks, watching the glowing blade regain its color.
At long last he was satisfied with his work and nodded to his assistant. Without a word the youth simply slumped to the ground, exhausted from hours of almost nonstop forge-work. With a hiss and a rush of steam the blade sizzled in the water trough that it was dropped into. Gunnarr eyed the boy for a moment before turning back to a table nearby. Large, calloused fingers plucked several gold coins from a dull leather pouch as walked with booming steps across the worn, dirty floorboards of his shop. He dropped the coins into the boy's lap before turning back to his worktable. "You're done for the day, be back tomorrow and dawn and we'll continue." The imperial teen said nothing but nodded in thanks before bounding off, suddenly filled with energy and enthusiasm.
Gunnarr watched the rather scrawny lad go, smiling to himself as he did. His memory told him he had not looked so different once upon a time. With hard work and dedication, perhaps he would take him on as a full apprentice next season. He could use the help, despite the peace of the times it seemed there was no end to their orders. Broken weapons, improperly maintained armor, noble gifts, and simple tools. An endless tide of metal, leather, and wood. Still, the coin was good and he could not ask for more. It was as good a life as any he would have ever had at home in Skyrim. As any he could expect anywhere across the Empire really. A sound from the front of the shop, what passed for a showroom, with dangling bits of iron, steel, and hide spread randomly around the room suddenly stole Gunnarr's attention as he moved to investigate.
At long last he was satisfied with his work and nodded to his assistant. Without a word the youth simply slumped to the ground, exhausted from hours of almost nonstop forge-work. With a hiss and a rush of steam the blade sizzled in the water trough that it was dropped into. Gunnarr eyed the boy for a moment before turning back to a table nearby. Large, calloused fingers plucked several gold coins from a dull leather pouch as walked with booming steps across the worn, dirty floorboards of his shop. He dropped the coins into the boy's lap before turning back to his worktable. "You're done for the day, be back tomorrow and dawn and we'll continue." The imperial teen said nothing but nodded in thanks before bounding off, suddenly filled with energy and enthusiasm.
Gunnarr watched the rather scrawny lad go, smiling to himself as he did. His memory told him he had not looked so different once upon a time. With hard work and dedication, perhaps he would take him on as a full apprentice next season. He could use the help, despite the peace of the times it seemed there was no end to their orders. Broken weapons, improperly maintained armor, noble gifts, and simple tools. An endless tide of metal, leather, and wood. Still, the coin was good and he could not ask for more. It was as good a life as any he would have ever had at home in Skyrim. As any he could expect anywhere across the Empire really. A sound from the front of the shop, what passed for a showroom, with dangling bits of iron, steel, and hide spread randomly around the room suddenly stole Gunnarr's attention as he moved to investigate.
AgathaCheddarbane
Bane of Cheddar
"Careful with that! Do you know how hard it is to get good dust like that? You have to burn and prod and make sure nothing gets into the fire, not even dirt!" Louis was standing over a young woman, who was carefully measuring out vampire dust with a spoon and a piece of parchment. "I don't see why you even need this. You already have these effects as abilities, more or less. And wouldn't it be cannibalism?"
Louis rubbed his chin. "Try to tell me you haven't used human blood in one of your potions. Or a whole heart! I didn't come all the way to Kvatch to listen to you question me, churl." The woman shook her head. "No, indeed. You're still running on the fool notion that this disease of yours can be cured. How many centuries has it been, Louis? And in that time, how much have you actually learned? Stop searching for that which doesn't exist, and enjoy your immortality."
At that, the man walked away. They'd had this conversation before, too many times. He wasn't going to listen to it again. He knew he was weak. It was too tempting to hear those words coming from a friend. But he knew her intentions. She envied him for his immortality. She wanted him to share his 'gift'. He wouldn't. No, he would cure himself. And then...maybe he would be too far past his time. He was ready, if it came to that. Or else he could live for a couple decades' more. Either way, he would not die with this taint.
He took the bottle from the woman when she indicated it was done. In a swift motion, he brought it to his lips and drank. The woman watched patiently, taking the empty flask from him. "I would have thought you'd take it to some gods-touched field, to watch the sunrise as your humanity was restored. Nay, you drink it here in my shop. Among the skulls and rotting fishes." Louis ignored her, watching his hand as if it would turn pink any moment. After a few minutes, he tried looking for a pulse. He was sensitive to any sensation. But soon five minutes had passed, and his eyes were still sickeningly red. If anything, the potion had sped up his desire to feed. The woman sighed. "I figured as much. I have no idea where you keep finding these recipes, but maybe you should let me search. I know a woman--"
"No witches." Louis interrupted. She gave him a disproving look, but it was not the first time she'd suggested this. "What do you think separates me from them? We are the same, save for the fact that they prefer solitude." The man shook his head. "You aren't a witch."
"Maybe, or perhaps you just tell yourself that. If I were, you'd have no one to run to when you need a potion made that is beyond your skill. Don't you ever wonder where I learned to craft as I do?" He ignored her, pulling out a collection of journals from his pack. Pages fluttered to the ground, but he made no attempt to pick them up. "Here are my catalogs. Every record of every place I've gone, every recipe or spell I've torn from the tomes I've found. And all of it in vain. All of it has gotten me nowhere. This was my last attempt. Where do I go from here? I've been everywhere. My quest is done. I've failed, Amelia."
"You haven't been everywhere, Louis."
Louis rubbed his chin. "Try to tell me you haven't used human blood in one of your potions. Or a whole heart! I didn't come all the way to Kvatch to listen to you question me, churl." The woman shook her head. "No, indeed. You're still running on the fool notion that this disease of yours can be cured. How many centuries has it been, Louis? And in that time, how much have you actually learned? Stop searching for that which doesn't exist, and enjoy your immortality."
At that, the man walked away. They'd had this conversation before, too many times. He wasn't going to listen to it again. He knew he was weak. It was too tempting to hear those words coming from a friend. But he knew her intentions. She envied him for his immortality. She wanted him to share his 'gift'. He wouldn't. No, he would cure himself. And then...maybe he would be too far past his time. He was ready, if it came to that. Or else he could live for a couple decades' more. Either way, he would not die with this taint.
He took the bottle from the woman when she indicated it was done. In a swift motion, he brought it to his lips and drank. The woman watched patiently, taking the empty flask from him. "I would have thought you'd take it to some gods-touched field, to watch the sunrise as your humanity was restored. Nay, you drink it here in my shop. Among the skulls and rotting fishes." Louis ignored her, watching his hand as if it would turn pink any moment. After a few minutes, he tried looking for a pulse. He was sensitive to any sensation. But soon five minutes had passed, and his eyes were still sickeningly red. If anything, the potion had sped up his desire to feed. The woman sighed. "I figured as much. I have no idea where you keep finding these recipes, but maybe you should let me search. I know a woman--"
"No witches." Louis interrupted. She gave him a disproving look, but it was not the first time she'd suggested this. "What do you think separates me from them? We are the same, save for the fact that they prefer solitude." The man shook his head. "You aren't a witch."
"Maybe, or perhaps you just tell yourself that. If I were, you'd have no one to run to when you need a potion made that is beyond your skill. Don't you ever wonder where I learned to craft as I do?" He ignored her, pulling out a collection of journals from his pack. Pages fluttered to the ground, but he made no attempt to pick them up. "Here are my catalogs. Every record of every place I've gone, every recipe or spell I've torn from the tomes I've found. And all of it in vain. All of it has gotten me nowhere. This was my last attempt. Where do I go from here? I've been everywhere. My quest is done. I've failed, Amelia."
"You haven't been everywhere, Louis."
cremora
Spooky Scary Skeletons!
Akishame had been tending to the dirt under her nails when the A'tek had addressed her. She plucked the dagger from under her nails and placed the cleaned hand over her heart, inclining her head. "To you as well, brothers," she said, Black Marsh on her tongue. "What can this one do for-" she stopped mid sentence, squinting at them. "Met? Sutara? Are this one's eyes mistaking her? She did not think you would be with the A'tek company this time. Welcome!"
The Argonian took two of her honey loaves and pushed them into their hands. "The storm must have you wearied. Eat and let us see if the smith has time to check your weapons. One cannot be too careful these days, what with those scale-rotten bastards patrolling the roads." Akishame had meant the bandits of course. They had been raiding the trade routes from Anvil up to Skingrad. They never made it further than Skingrad due to the guard stationed there. Heavy with Nords, it was difficult to compete with them without going unscathed.
She packed up her stall, having only made those three Septims from her marsh-sister, and led the A'tek pair to the local forge. The smith she only knew in passing, their conversations always brief, but his work spoke for itself. As they approached the front of his shop Akishame noted the clouds darkening in the sky. Rain swelled in their bellies, she knew. The air was growing more heavy with the passing of the hours. "Let us get inside before the sky opens upon us, yes?" She gestured for Met and Sutara to enter and followed thereafter.
The shop was empty when they got in, but with their presence now evident, out came the Nord who worked the forge. "Hail, smith!" she called out, perusing the goods on the walls.
( @Strom , @Amornar )
The Argonian took two of her honey loaves and pushed them into their hands. "The storm must have you wearied. Eat and let us see if the smith has time to check your weapons. One cannot be too careful these days, what with those scale-rotten bastards patrolling the roads." Akishame had meant the bandits of course. They had been raiding the trade routes from Anvil up to Skingrad. They never made it further than Skingrad due to the guard stationed there. Heavy with Nords, it was difficult to compete with them without going unscathed.
She packed up her stall, having only made those three Septims from her marsh-sister, and led the A'tek pair to the local forge. The smith she only knew in passing, their conversations always brief, but his work spoke for itself. As they approached the front of his shop Akishame noted the clouds darkening in the sky. Rain swelled in their bellies, she knew. The air was growing more heavy with the passing of the hours. "Let us get inside before the sky opens upon us, yes?" She gestured for Met and Sutara to enter and followed thereafter.
The shop was empty when they got in, but with their presence now evident, out came the Nord who worked the forge. "Hail, smith!" she called out, perusing the goods on the walls.
( @Strom , @Amornar )
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Amornar
The Night Lord
"Hail, smith!" The words came forced through reptilian lips to the nordic smith's ears as he moved through his rather cluttered workspace toward the sound of an opening and closing shop door. With grace gained only through intimate familiarity with one's surroundings Gunnarr passed between stacks of iron armor, racks of broken weapons awaiting rebirth through fire and sweat, stacks of carefully organized ingots, and a hundred and one other items that seemed utterly at home in the dark, smokey space.
Rounding the corner of the rough oak wall that separated the workshop from the storefront, Gunnarr took in the measure of his would-be patrons with careful, experienced, albeit quick inspection. The female Argonian was clearly the one whom had called upon the trios' entrance. The other two, both males, looked vaguely Breton, but seemed utterly foreign to those whom called High Rock home. He would know, he had spent almost two years in the city apprenticed to a highly respected and talented master-smith in his younger years. These strangers seemed to him vaguely kin to those of Breton stock who roamed the hills in the west of Skyrim around the border of High Rock. A noble savagry seemed to wash off of them as their eyes, edged in the blackest kohl seemed to take in the measure of himself whole the reptilian female appeared to stand with an equal mix of caution and awkwardness. Gunnar spent but a moment's thought on the matter, the origins and affairs of others were hardly his concern. As long as they respected his shop, paid fairly for his services, and did nothing to disrupt the community at large they could come and go as they pleased through Kvatch.
"Well met travelers," Gunnarr spoke in his thick northern accent as he nodded his head in respected greeting. "Welcome to Gunnarr's. The finest weapons and armor. Got some good pieces out here if you're looking to buy. More inside. We also sharpen and repair for a nominal fee." The nord's tone was friendly, but the words came slightly rushed and seemed as if expelled in one solid breath, like he had spoken them a thousand times before......he probubly had. His facial expression, and more specifically, his dark green eyes, echoed much of his tone with a stern openness as he waited for these newcomers to state their wishes.
Rounding the corner of the rough oak wall that separated the workshop from the storefront, Gunnarr took in the measure of his would-be patrons with careful, experienced, albeit quick inspection. The female Argonian was clearly the one whom had called upon the trios' entrance. The other two, both males, looked vaguely Breton, but seemed utterly foreign to those whom called High Rock home. He would know, he had spent almost two years in the city apprenticed to a highly respected and talented master-smith in his younger years. These strangers seemed to him vaguely kin to those of Breton stock who roamed the hills in the west of Skyrim around the border of High Rock. A noble savagry seemed to wash off of them as their eyes, edged in the blackest kohl seemed to take in the measure of himself whole the reptilian female appeared to stand with an equal mix of caution and awkwardness. Gunnar spent but a moment's thought on the matter, the origins and affairs of others were hardly his concern. As long as they respected his shop, paid fairly for his services, and did nothing to disrupt the community at large they could come and go as they pleased through Kvatch.
"Well met travelers," Gunnarr spoke in his thick northern accent as he nodded his head in respected greeting. "Welcome to Gunnarr's. The finest weapons and armor. Got some good pieces out here if you're looking to buy. More inside. We also sharpen and repair for a nominal fee." The nord's tone was friendly, but the words came slightly rushed and seemed as if expelled in one solid breath, like he had spoken them a thousand times before......he probubly had. His facial expression, and more specifically, his dark green eyes, echoed much of his tone with a stern openness as he waited for these newcomers to state their wishes.
Strom
Dragons Daemons and Witchbreeds Oh no!
The pair of Outlanders stepped cautiously into the store eyeing the corners suspiciously, indoors was not their forte and being a paranoid people did not help either. Sutara went to the right of the shop looking at the mass of arms and armor while Met headed left. He lifted a piece of iron plate armor and examined it, shaking his head as to why someone would want to encumber themselves with such weight. Setting the plate back in its rightful place he rejoined Met at the front of the shop, as their scaled friend called for the smith the two A'tek talked among themselves in their native tongue.
"You think it wise to trust our weapons to this outsider? My spear is older than everyone here combined and worth more than this shops entire stock!" Sutara gestured to his spear and the room as he spoke, never one to like surrendering his relic of a weapon.
"You always worry too much my friend, I am sure we will fare just fine. Besides this shop is Nord owned, that blade attached to your hilt is from the Nords, who better to fix it?" Met took his twin daggers and placed them on the counter along with his own spear.
"I suppose you are correct, though I will not leave them unattended and I will observe his handiwork myself. Hircine knows the Chief would kill me if I lost the blade." he begrudgingly set the Spear-Sword on the counter along side his brother's weaponry.
"Of course of course, I would expect no less, though I wouldn't worry to much about the Chief executing you, The Wise One will lecture you to death first!" Met burst out laughing at his own humor before patting Sutara on the shoulder. "See now? Here comes the smith."
The pair watched the towering Nord enter the main room and nodded their heads in an informal bow welcoming their host.
"Well met travelers, Welcome to Gunnarr's. The finest weapons and armor. Got some good pieces out here if you're looking to buy. More inside. We also sharpen and repair for a nominal fee."
Sutara gestured to the weapons they laid on the counter top with his right hand, "We shall be needing our arms sharpened Master Smith, they have grown weary from travel and use. Please take great care with them I do not want to sound coarse but these are worth more than your life or ours, that spear there is from the Great War, when our people were united by the Ebonheart Pact. I trust in your abilities to treat them with respect." with that being said he bowed his head one last time in thanks then stepped aside allowing their blood sister to approach the counter.
"You think it wise to trust our weapons to this outsider? My spear is older than everyone here combined and worth more than this shops entire stock!" Sutara gestured to his spear and the room as he spoke, never one to like surrendering his relic of a weapon.
"You always worry too much my friend, I am sure we will fare just fine. Besides this shop is Nord owned, that blade attached to your hilt is from the Nords, who better to fix it?" Met took his twin daggers and placed them on the counter along with his own spear.
"I suppose you are correct, though I will not leave them unattended and I will observe his handiwork myself. Hircine knows the Chief would kill me if I lost the blade." he begrudgingly set the Spear-Sword on the counter along side his brother's weaponry.
"Of course of course, I would expect no less, though I wouldn't worry to much about the Chief executing you, The Wise One will lecture you to death first!" Met burst out laughing at his own humor before patting Sutara on the shoulder. "See now? Here comes the smith."
The pair watched the towering Nord enter the main room and nodded their heads in an informal bow welcoming their host.
"Well met travelers, Welcome to Gunnarr's. The finest weapons and armor. Got some good pieces out here if you're looking to buy. More inside. We also sharpen and repair for a nominal fee."
Sutara gestured to the weapons they laid on the counter top with his right hand, "We shall be needing our arms sharpened Master Smith, they have grown weary from travel and use. Please take great care with them I do not want to sound coarse but these are worth more than your life or ours, that spear there is from the Great War, when our people were united by the Ebonheart Pact. I trust in your abilities to treat them with respect." with that being said he bowed his head one last time in thanks then stepped aside allowing their blood sister to approach the counter.
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cremora
Spooky Scary Skeletons!
The Saxhleel woman listened to the two A'tek bicker and gesture in their own language, unable to understand it. She could sense apprehension in their pheromones, but they often tasted like that within city walls. She shrugged off the concern when they put their weapons on the counter, then chuckled softly to herself at their embellishments of the weapons. Surely they couldn't be from the great war. Were they collectors or did they also have family from those old times? She would have to remember to ask them when next they shared a cook fire. Why they hadn't mentioned it until now would also be put to the question.
Akishame took her place in front of the two Bretons when prompted and shouldered her quiver of arrows onto the counter. "This one greets you, Gunnarr," the Argonian dropped her gaze and nodded briefly. "She could use another set of arrows and perhaps sharpening on these?" She produced the two daggers strapped to her sides, revealing their make. Nordic steel, seemingly passed down from ancestors as well, glimmered across the blades' bodies, their edges black as ebony. Not the finest pieces to come by, but their temper made them pretty to look at and hard to see at night.
She set the metal fangs beside her quiver and looked back up to the smithy. "While this one is thinking of it, do you know where she may find Nirnroot or some potions? She has not had a chance to look around for such things. You appear local, yes? Does Kvatch have an alchemist?" After the last Hist-induced hallucination, Akishame had lost three days of her life and over 70 Septims across the greater plains to the north of the Imperial City. Her belly had been full, but she had not the least of an idea of what she'd eaten, and when she awoke, more than half of a bandits' den had been slaughtered in her wake.
While she didn't think another attack would happen again. the serpentine female could not risk it. She had to try to find a cure, or at the very least a suppressant. With luck, the plant she'd heard of, called a Nirnroot, might be just the thing she needed.
That is, if anyone else knew what it was or where to find it.
@Amornar
Akishame took her place in front of the two Bretons when prompted and shouldered her quiver of arrows onto the counter. "This one greets you, Gunnarr," the Argonian dropped her gaze and nodded briefly. "She could use another set of arrows and perhaps sharpening on these?" She produced the two daggers strapped to her sides, revealing their make. Nordic steel, seemingly passed down from ancestors as well, glimmered across the blades' bodies, their edges black as ebony. Not the finest pieces to come by, but their temper made them pretty to look at and hard to see at night.
She set the metal fangs beside her quiver and looked back up to the smithy. "While this one is thinking of it, do you know where she may find Nirnroot or some potions? She has not had a chance to look around for such things. You appear local, yes? Does Kvatch have an alchemist?" After the last Hist-induced hallucination, Akishame had lost three days of her life and over 70 Septims across the greater plains to the north of the Imperial City. Her belly had been full, but she had not the least of an idea of what she'd eaten, and when she awoke, more than half of a bandits' den had been slaughtered in her wake.
While she didn't think another attack would happen again. the serpentine female could not risk it. She had to try to find a cure, or at the very least a suppressant. With luck, the plant she'd heard of, called a Nirnroot, might be just the thing she needed.
That is, if anyone else knew what it was or where to find it.
@Amornar
Amornar
The Night Lord
Gunnarr eyed the two Breton-esque customers with a slight amount of skepticism, particularly the one who seemed to speak for the pair. If he had one septim for every time a stranger claimed his weapon to be of some grandiose past he would have long since retired to a plush estate in the Colovian highlands. Upon further inspection however, the strangers words truth indeed. These blades were magnificent specimens of an age long since pasted. Pure silvered steel mined from the womb of mother Skyrim and forged in her hallowed flame. A slight curl formed at the corner of Gunnarr's mouth as his large weathered paws reached out to softly touch and take the weapons from the man's hands. It was possible these blades were forged by one of his ancestors. His clan had worked the Skyforge of Whiterun since the days of great Ysgrammor himself. Many of Skyrim's greatest and most famous of blades were born of those magical embers.
Gunnarr declined to respond but humbly took them with an acknowledging and respectful nod. He did not share his past, his feelings, or his longing to return home with anyone least not of all a strange collection of travelers. Gunnarr now turned to the female Saxhleel as she produced weapons of her own. Fine, but not what he would consider a relic, more a reliable weapon and tool of someone not to be messed with lightly than the living relics of the male pair. Gunnarr took one blade in his right hand, offered by the scaley claws of the Argonian. He twisted it left, right, back, and let it twist around from blade to handle and again back in his hand. He nodded to himself, paying little heed to the prying eyes and inspections from his patrons. Their words carried little weight compared to the words whispered by steel and iron. Taking the second dagger he again repeated his inspection not once but twice full. A soft sound came from deep in his throat as he frowned slightly but placed the blade into the collection carried in his left hand and arm.
"About an hour for the lot." He spoke, his thick Nordic voice echoing from steel and wood surroundings. He turned, specifically addressing the female. "I think I have some arrows in the back you'll find quite satisfactory. As for alchemy in Kvatch you won't find much but your best bet is a place two blocks down," he gestured sticking his thumb out, "old wood elf, got one good eye, he's a little addled but mostly harmless. Nirnrooot is rare across Cyrodiil, good luck." His tone as ever was strangely flat, as if concious effort went as much to syllable inflection as it did to word choice.
He did not wait for a reply before turning with his work and disappearing through the doorway into the heat and smoke of the forgeroom. As ever, he did not care much what his customers did while he worked. Some left and wandered, some simply waited, others wandered about, watching with curiosity at his craft. As long as they respected him and his trade, that is all that mattered.
Gunnarr declined to respond but humbly took them with an acknowledging and respectful nod. He did not share his past, his feelings, or his longing to return home with anyone least not of all a strange collection of travelers. Gunnarr now turned to the female Saxhleel as she produced weapons of her own. Fine, but not what he would consider a relic, more a reliable weapon and tool of someone not to be messed with lightly than the living relics of the male pair. Gunnarr took one blade in his right hand, offered by the scaley claws of the Argonian. He twisted it left, right, back, and let it twist around from blade to handle and again back in his hand. He nodded to himself, paying little heed to the prying eyes and inspections from his patrons. Their words carried little weight compared to the words whispered by steel and iron. Taking the second dagger he again repeated his inspection not once but twice full. A soft sound came from deep in his throat as he frowned slightly but placed the blade into the collection carried in his left hand and arm.
"About an hour for the lot." He spoke, his thick Nordic voice echoing from steel and wood surroundings. He turned, specifically addressing the female. "I think I have some arrows in the back you'll find quite satisfactory. As for alchemy in Kvatch you won't find much but your best bet is a place two blocks down," he gestured sticking his thumb out, "old wood elf, got one good eye, he's a little addled but mostly harmless. Nirnrooot is rare across Cyrodiil, good luck." His tone as ever was strangely flat, as if concious effort went as much to syllable inflection as it did to word choice.
He did not wait for a reply before turning with his work and disappearing through the doorway into the heat and smoke of the forgeroom. As ever, he did not care much what his customers did while he worked. Some left and wandered, some simply waited, others wandered about, watching with curiosity at his craft. As long as they respected him and his trade, that is all that mattered.
Phantom King
Just call me Mugen.
Harukeeus Xeirtus
Strid River --> Kvatch
A clang of silver on steel rang out followed by the gurgling sounds of an imperial bandit as he was slain by Harukeeus after parrying a downwards strike and followed up with a slash with his silver shortsword slicing open his jugular. In his left hand he had a spell ready to cast as he began to sheathe his blade, and in a few moments summoned from the plane of oblivion appeared a daedric bow in his hands. He didn't hesitate to draw and fire it upon and unsuspecting bandit, she was an orc the last of this specific group and she was standing outside of the ruined entrance oblivious to what was going on. He let the magical arrow fly true and it stayed true, striking the orc in the center of her shoulder-blades in her spine severing the nervous system and the shock causing immediate death. Once the deed was done he'd cast the bow aside letting it dematerialize as Harukeeus began searching for the chest he new had to be around somewhere full of their loot. He looked towards the water from where he just had came, it was a good day for a swim he always though. Flying underwater was something he enjoyed as his wings gave him a much larger propelling force than just his tail alone. However coming upon this bandit camp he could of gone on his way and made it to Kvatch without conflict. Until an imperial had stated he was going to "Make a fine pair of boots." When he spotted Harukeeus exiting the water in his black leathers, wings were still hidden at the moment but once he heard the comment all was lost for them.
The flashback was broken when he had been interrupted by a door flying open followed by a redguard clad in heavy armour and two not-so-scary bosmer companions in fur armour gazing around at what had happened, almost as if on instinct the sarpa casted a chameleon spell that made him close to invisible (75%) afterwards drawing both his long and shortsword as he wasn't trying to risk his magicka for too long. He made short work of the bosmer at the same time with a swift slash of each of his blades rewarded him with warm blood upon his face and body. Next came the redguard in heavy armour, he looked upon him for a few momemts before the bandit charged him with a steel shield raised and knocked Harukeeus right on his ass. In a fit of rage Harukeeus rolled backwards and stood up afterwards yelling at the redguard spreading his wings and began flying around him lacerating him over two hundred times until the man eventually bled out from his wounds. Afterwards Harukeeus would land near the door once again a dull throb in his chest from the shield bash but he arrived at where he needed to be. The door was open to a larger chest and once open inside contained...
An emerald, one hundred thirteen gold, and over several rare alchemy type of ingredients that could be use in many ways. Once he got one he needed he'd turn away and take off in flight before reaching the top of Kvatch's west wall and proceeding to walk back into the with with the blood of the recently slain bandits. Once he was there he'd come to land in the middle of Kvatch, and normally the same responses came when her went anyone. From 'That argonian has wings..' or 'What kind of thing is that?' Some have even tried their luck of slaying him, which he has no qualms with..always fun having a new food to play with. He'd hop down from the walls of Kvatch and land nearby the smith's shop before deciding he'd take a visit inside and see if the smith had almost gotten finished to making the silver arrows like he had asked prior. However once he got inside he found swiftly he wasn't alone, there was a busy argonian female, naga of type obvious to him due to her slim form and large tail. Next were two unknown people who smelled of Breton but he felt as if they're different/ Harukeeus sat quiet beside the blacksmiths door waiting for his turn to get this completed.
(SOrry was falling asleep typing)
cremora
Spooky Scary Skeletons!
An hour for the whole of it? Akishame furrowed her brow-scales in disbelief but said nothing more. Unless he planned to charge more than 100 septims for the work, she had nothing to worry about anyway. Her main focus now was trying to find a good harvest of Nirnroot or wormwood. She needed both for the newest cure recipe she'd patched together in an attempt to get rid of her hallucinations. The Argonian twitched her head slightly to shake the thoughts from her mind, then put a hand to the shoulders of her friends. "Met, Sutara, this one will be heading to this shop that the smith spoke of. She hopes you will fare well here while Gunnarr-" she stumbled on the name slightly, almost butchering the name with her serpentine tongue, "tends to our things?"
In either case, whether they decided to stay close to their weapons or follow her, the Saxhleel woman turned and made to leave for the herbalist. Upon turning however, her eyes met with a gargantuan Argonian male. Brilliant golden colors mottled his scales and set his feathers afire. His coloration was the least of his startling features though. As she scanned him from head to toe she saw the real abnormality of his stature. Wings, only ever depicted as myth to her Naga clan, draped from his middle and down his sides. The Sarpa had been thought to be long dead or in hiding, she thought incredulously. To find one outside of Black Marsh made it all the stranger.
It was only the briefest of seconds that she looked him over, but it might as well have been an eternity. She managed to find her tongue, only just, muttering out a greeting in Jel. As the Argonian language was mostly feeling and abstract conjecture, the series of noises she made towards him were more a gesture of respect and good tidings than an actual hello. Still, the point was made, and she dashed from the smithy's place of business at a run, willing to escape faster than her feet could carry her.
It was not embarrassment that drove her per se, but more the sheer magnitude of what the other Argonian was. She had never seen a Sarpa before, let alone a Saxhleel as vibrant or huge. It had been such a long time since she'd seen a male Argonian at all. Bruma was the hub for Cyrodiil Argonians, and that wasn't necessarily a good thing. She waved away the beehive of thoughts and focused on finding the herbalist Gunnarr had mentioned. Akishame found a door tucked into the back of a stone wall, almost missing it entirely if not for the gleam of the hinges. She wasn't sure if the door led to the place she was searching for, but it felt like the place she needed to be. She pushed the door inward, knocking as she went. "Hello?" she called out, eying the dark hallway. "This one is looking for an herbalist or alchemist?"
The home immediately sent shivers up her spine. The clear and biting stench of undead permeated the entire building, a scent which she regretted to inhale. It made bile rise in her throat, but she couldn't be sure if the smell was old, or if the undeath still resided. It was too late to go back, so she stepped all the way past the threshold and shut the door. "This one apologizes for intrusion. She may have the wrong shop." Even as she said these words she kept walking forward, until she found the source of the candle light which had flickered faintly up to that point.
Two people, a man and woman, who had been speaking until Akishame showed up, peered back at her. The man in particular had an eerie gaze on his face, but the candle light made it hard to be sure if it was just a trick of the shadows. "This one apologizes again, sir and madam. She has found the wrong place."
(@AgathaCheddarbane, @Phantom King )
In either case, whether they decided to stay close to their weapons or follow her, the Saxhleel woman turned and made to leave for the herbalist. Upon turning however, her eyes met with a gargantuan Argonian male. Brilliant golden colors mottled his scales and set his feathers afire. His coloration was the least of his startling features though. As she scanned him from head to toe she saw the real abnormality of his stature. Wings, only ever depicted as myth to her Naga clan, draped from his middle and down his sides. The Sarpa had been thought to be long dead or in hiding, she thought incredulously. To find one outside of Black Marsh made it all the stranger.
It was only the briefest of seconds that she looked him over, but it might as well have been an eternity. She managed to find her tongue, only just, muttering out a greeting in Jel. As the Argonian language was mostly feeling and abstract conjecture, the series of noises she made towards him were more a gesture of respect and good tidings than an actual hello. Still, the point was made, and she dashed from the smithy's place of business at a run, willing to escape faster than her feet could carry her.
It was not embarrassment that drove her per se, but more the sheer magnitude of what the other Argonian was. She had never seen a Sarpa before, let alone a Saxhleel as vibrant or huge. It had been such a long time since she'd seen a male Argonian at all. Bruma was the hub for Cyrodiil Argonians, and that wasn't necessarily a good thing. She waved away the beehive of thoughts and focused on finding the herbalist Gunnarr had mentioned. Akishame found a door tucked into the back of a stone wall, almost missing it entirely if not for the gleam of the hinges. She wasn't sure if the door led to the place she was searching for, but it felt like the place she needed to be. She pushed the door inward, knocking as she went. "Hello?" she called out, eying the dark hallway. "This one is looking for an herbalist or alchemist?"
The home immediately sent shivers up her spine. The clear and biting stench of undead permeated the entire building, a scent which she regretted to inhale. It made bile rise in her throat, but she couldn't be sure if the smell was old, or if the undeath still resided. It was too late to go back, so she stepped all the way past the threshold and shut the door. "This one apologizes for intrusion. She may have the wrong shop." Even as she said these words she kept walking forward, until she found the source of the candle light which had flickered faintly up to that point.
Two people, a man and woman, who had been speaking until Akishame showed up, peered back at her. The man in particular had an eerie gaze on his face, but the candle light made it hard to be sure if it was just a trick of the shadows. "This one apologizes again, sir and madam. She has found the wrong place."
(@AgathaCheddarbane, @Phantom King )
Amornar
The Night Lord
Gunnar breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction as he manipulated each weapon in turn. First the vaguely Breton pair's blades. He swung the short spear in a quick arc, snapping it through the air with lethal precision as it seemed to cut the air itself as it whistled around his head. He did not need to even touch the blade to know the keen edge that it once again held. For a moment he considered not charging the pair for the work. After all, the blades were a labor of love for the homesick smith. The ancient silvered steel of his beloved Skyrim was not something he often came across and the tales the metal had shared with him in their brief time together had been a pleasure and an honor.
With a softer sigh he placed the blades carefully upon his work bench, picking up the Argonian's daggers. The blacked surfaces, while not quite the masterwork relics of the Bretons were still far and above the normal cut of the steel and iron he worked upon daily. The one dagger had taken the majority of time, having to disassembled the hilt and adjust the balance of the blade. He wondered if the female had realized the half-gram balance difference between them. Holding only a single pair of daggers for most of your life, as Gunnar guessed, would mean she may have become blind to it long ago. But to someone who had smithed and handled a thousand and one small blades over the decades the difference glared at him no different than a dull edge. She certainly seemed like the type of traveler who would appreciate the correction.
Lastly, the bundle he had stashed in the back corner. He had glanced out while he was working and spotted the massive male argonian from earlier returned. Opening the gray linen wrap, several dozen glimmering arrows, bound tightly together by a leather cord gleamed in the firelight. Silver bodkin heads, each exactly like each other in mirror image stood in starch contrast to the dark, almost black wood shafts and black feathered fletchings. Wrapping two meaty nordic fists around all the weapons he returned to the front and laid the items upon the counter in front of his new patrons....
With a softer sigh he placed the blades carefully upon his work bench, picking up the Argonian's daggers. The blacked surfaces, while not quite the masterwork relics of the Bretons were still far and above the normal cut of the steel and iron he worked upon daily. The one dagger had taken the majority of time, having to disassembled the hilt and adjust the balance of the blade. He wondered if the female had realized the half-gram balance difference between them. Holding only a single pair of daggers for most of your life, as Gunnar guessed, would mean she may have become blind to it long ago. But to someone who had smithed and handled a thousand and one small blades over the decades the difference glared at him no different than a dull edge. She certainly seemed like the type of traveler who would appreciate the correction.
Lastly, the bundle he had stashed in the back corner. He had glanced out while he was working and spotted the massive male argonian from earlier returned. Opening the gray linen wrap, several dozen glimmering arrows, bound tightly together by a leather cord gleamed in the firelight. Silver bodkin heads, each exactly like each other in mirror image stood in starch contrast to the dark, almost black wood shafts and black feathered fletchings. Wrapping two meaty nordic fists around all the weapons he returned to the front and laid the items upon the counter in front of his new patrons....
