The Royal Hunt: IC

Discussion in 'RPG and OOC RPG Discussions' started by Mad Hatter, May 30, 2018.

  1. Mad Hatter

    Mad Hatter Loitering from 2009 - 2018

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    It is the year 169 of the 4th era and all seems well in the province of Skyrim. Our story begins in a small tavern in the capital city of Solitude, The Winking Skeever. It is not a pretty tavern by any means, but the owner – Corpulus makes sure it’s safe enough to drink in. You have received a scroll, delivered to you several weeks ago, summoning you here. The man you are supposed to meet is waiting for you in a booth, an imperial by the name of Alberius Annifus. Upon agreement to his proposal you will receive supplies and/or equipment, should you need it.
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    Last edited: May 31, 2018
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  2. warrior_squirrel21

    warrior_squirrel21 the poor mans old breed

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    The streets were empty this late, but Aethor kept his eyes keen. He didn't quite trust Nords. Never before had he been this far east, and all he truly knew of them were the unkind rumors the other Drowned spoke of. It was a land of brutes, they had told him. A land too harsh for the sane to settle, and so cut off from the arcane that either by malice or foolishness they had blown up their own feeble attempt of a mages college. They seemed more akin to Orscimer then Man. Why then, was everything so beautiful? In a rustic sense the buildings were sleek and efficient, and the streets were paved, not mud as Girea had told him. Although he was scarcely on the edge of this kingdom, the country side had been breathe taking. Nothing would ever compare to the steel grey cliffs and sands of home, but in all his travels Aethor had never gazed at such a range of beauty from one mountain side.
    Soon he heard the unmistakable sounds of a tavern, and upon turning the corner he was greeted by a large sign with a skeever with one eye open. This was the place. Upon entering he was greeted with naught but a dozen or two drunken men, who payed him no mind. No bother, Aethor wasn't interested in them either. What did catch his eye was the small booth in the back, occupied only by an official looking man, who seemed entirely out of place.
    "Alberius Annifus, I presume?" said Aethor as he reached the table.
     
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  3. Kakashi

    Kakashi Call me Deacon Blues

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    Hassan was quite familiar with Skyrim. Bordering Hammerfell, he was frequently called to the province for business and otherwise. Even Solitude, in the far north of Skyrim, was not completely foreign to him--diplomatic missions had led him to the capital on several occasions.

    However, that did not make him feel any less like a stranger in a strange land. Here he was, hundreds of miles from the land he knew, at the beck and call of someone he knew little of. Still, the request had been too intriguing to pass up. The king had supported the idea of following the lead, and so he did.

    They were not meeting in a castle or palace, rather in a tavern called the Winking Skeever. Another strange detail, but Hassan shook any concern off. Any trouble he might face, he could handle.

    The scroll he had received told him to bring no equipment, and that it would be provided by Annifus. Still, Hassan had his longsword at his belt -- traveling without it would have been ridiculous. And, as one of the few mementos his father had left, he could not leave it behind. The sword was roughly 4 feet long, and crafted of fine steel. It was nothing extraordinary, but it had served him well for his entire career.

    Traveling through the criss-cross streets, Hassan found the bar, marked by a sign bearing a skeever, and entered, with little doubt in his mind.

    The tavern was filled with the general riffraff that generally occupied these watering holes. Scanning quickly, his eye caught glimpse of an imperial in the corner of the room.

    As he approached, he heard a robed Breton before him say "Alberius Annifus, I presume?"

    Hassan approached, but stayed several feet behind the Breton, to await the response of the Imperial.
     
  4. Midnattblod

    Midnattblod Royal Wolf of Shadow

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    Ulfgir made his way through the gates of the city. Too many times he walked this route, from the time he was a lad bringing the catch in to market. He remembered the time that they had gotten two septims for the first fish he had ever caught on his own. He remembered the feeling of elation that had washed through him that day. Somehow, he always had those memories resurface every time he entered Solitude.

    He had in his hand a missive asking that he meet someone named Annifus at the Winking Skeever. Ulfgir smiled, this meant at least one good bottle of mead was to be had this night. Walking through the city, he made it to the destination. Upon entering, he took a look around, saw a few familiar faces, and a few not familiar faces, and shouldered his way through through the crowd.

    "A good bottle of mead my man," Ulfgir said to the innkeep. After receiving the mead, Ulfgir once again glanced around to see if he could spot this fellow who sent the note. He looked over to a table in the corner, he noticed a couple folks, who definitely looked like out of towners, walk up to a fella sitting at the table. Ulfgir shrugged, and thinking this seemed like a good enough lead, tightened his grip on his bottle and worked his way over there.

    As he got near, he heard one of them ask, "Alberius Annifus, I presume."

    Ulfgir snorted a bit at the sound of someone using a word like presume in an establishment like this but otherwise didn't make his presence overly known. He waited for an answer from the one in the chair before he would join this group completely
     
  5. Mad Hatter

    Mad Hatter Loitering from 2009 - 2018

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    Alberius looked up from a of the Black Horse Courier that had the headline "DISAPPEARANCES CONTINUE IN THE IMPERIAL CITY"

    "Ah, you must be the heroes, though I must say I was expecting more of you." He seemed dazed and out of focus for a moment before snapping back and continuing "Nevertheless, a job must be done, and a job will be done."
    He beckoned them to sit before sliding a large scroll of parchment across the table to them. It was a map of Cyrodill, the province south of Skyrim. On the map were a number of crude red crosses in seemingly random locations. "This one, here-" Alberius tapped his finger to a cross in the middle of nowhere "-was where a young boy, no older than 12, was found dead." He noted the unwavered expressions of the gentlement infront of him. "He had symbols carved onto his eyeballs. Symbols never seen before."

    "Reports have leaked back to the Emperor that the same carvings have been seen in Skyrim now, too. Not on any bodies, mind you, but on inanimate objects. Trees, benches, caves, the like. Simply put, you have been charged with the task of figuring out the meaning of this and putting a stop to it. Before we proceed, you you accept?"

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  6. warrior_squirrel21

    warrior_squirrel21 the poor mans old breed

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    Aethors eyes shifted between his new acquaintances. A Nord, a Redguard, an Imperial, and a Breton. It was odd, he thought, to have all four races of Mankind sitting here at one table. Aethor had assumed this contract would place him working with an organization, not a collaboration of foreigners. Truly this task had exhausted the minds of even the Empires brightest, as they usually handled their own subversion and detective work. No, this mystery clearly required fresh perspective. His mind rounded back to the quest. A young boy found murdered was tragic, yet not uncommon in Tamriel. The carving of his eyes however... it reeked of dark magic. Some sort of necromancy perhaps? No, it couldn't be. Aethor had countless experience dealing with (and on a few secret occasions practicing) necromancy, yet never had he heard of this method.
    There was something darker here, and he couldn't shake the thought that perhaps someone was more interested in utilizing souls than bodies.

    "Well, I suppose I could make the long trek home," Aethor said, "and return to the Council with empty hands and a dark mystery." He knew that would not be tolorated, however. Despite being so rich in magic and wisdom, Sparthet was poor in the funds this world prioritized. The stories of the first Drowned Council were even said to have been formed for commerce. If the sea produced little profit, then they would trade their minds and skills to sustain the village. What's more, it had worked well. The village grew into a town, and the Drowned grew into legends.
    "Of course I will take your quest. Point me in the right direction and I can be off by morning."
     
  7. Kakashi

    Kakashi Call me Deacon Blues

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    Hassan listened to the story the man told, not impressed by the details. Symbols on trees? Intriguing, maybe, but it was hardly the sort of thing he was used to pursuing. The Breton, a mage by all appearances, maybe he was interested in these things. But Hassan? He would have preferred a quest to slay some creature or capture some wanted criminal. This was strange to him.

    However, he felt as though was honor-bound to attempt the quest. By coming all this way, and putting his employment in the royal guard on hold, he had to at least see where the road took him. At the same time, he was somewhat suspicious of the man called Annifus. He had many questions, many of which he could not voice.

    The first to answer was the Breton: "Of course I will take your quest. Point me in the right direction and I can be off by morning." It was no surprise there. These magical mysteries must have intrigued him.

    "I will accept your quest. But, first you must tell me more - what am I expected to do? I am a warrior. I cannot decipher runes." Hassan stated, flatly.
     
  8. warrior_squirrel21

    warrior_squirrel21 the poor mans old breed

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    "My guess is that we will encounter as many foul things on this journey as we will runes." Aethor said to the Redguard. "To carve such things in the eyes of a child takes a steady hand, and a steady hand takes coin to hire. Powerful men are behind this, and there should be no doubt they've invested in....security."
    He smiled and looked at the Redguard. He was tall and lanky, yet broad and muscular. In another life this blademaster might have been quite the athlete.
    "No, something in the wind tells me a sword will be as valuable as a mind on this quest. Not to worry though," Aethor chuckled, "you won't have to protect me."
    The gods new that was true. To many times had he clawed his way from death, and in his wake traded his enemies lives against the weight of his own.
     
  9. Midnattblod

    Midnattblod Royal Wolf of Shadow

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    Ulfgir sat back after hearing the tale from this Imperial. Marking on benches and such were usually of no concern to most. Usually they were put there, along with other places, by the thieves guild. He did find the fact that these symbols had been carved into a young boys eyes a bit off putting.

    Ulfgir tried to think if there were any rumors of some cult or another in the area, but was unsure. Most of those sort of rumors get passed along over a few pints, so his recollection was a bit too fuzzy.

    Of course, as a proud son of Skyrim, he would give his utmost to solve this. Especially if it risks spreading throughout his homeland.
     
  10. Mad Hatter

    Mad Hatter Loitering from 2009 - 2018

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    Alberius clapped his hands together and remarked "Most excellent!". He pulled another scroll from his satchel. This one was a lot smaller than the last, no bigger than the nearby cheese wheel. "Now, this paper will entitle you to a specific allowance, to be redeemed at any location within the city. Do try not to squander it all on ale, will you?" he gave a slight roll of his eye, giving off the impression that such a thing had happened in times past. "I think 500 septims will be ample to get yourselves some equipment and supplies." He signed the parchment, rolled it back up and preceded to put the official wax stamp of the empire on the seal. Signed and sealed, he pushed the scroll onto the far side of the table, infront of the breton, feeling as though he would be the most organized of the three.

    Now, on my way here I picked up a few rumours that there had been some strange sightings down near dragon bridge, to the south. I would suggest you begin your search there.

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  11. warrior_squirrel21

    warrior_squirrel21 the poor mans old breed

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    Aethor glanced at his new companions. Though they had eyed the scroll, they seemed content to let him take it, so he did.
    "Dragon Bridge," he said, "that is south of here, no? I passed through it on the journey here, though it was very dark, I didn't really see much."
    Aethor slowly opened his satchel and placed the scroll of 500 septims in it within clear view of the others. He wanted them to know exactly where it was, so that none could accuse him of slipping off with it. Wits and blades would play the largest part in this quest, but right now building trust was most important. Though the group was comprised of Mankind, they were all of different bloodlines. History had shown clearly that a common gene pool did not stop creatures from turning on one another, but Aethor would not have that happen here, and the others seemed trustworthy enough.
    "I thank you for the tip, Annifus, and also for the coin. I assure you only a small portion shall go to spirits, to keep ourselves warm." Aethor gave a quick wink, "We are in Skyrim, after all."
    Satchel in hand, Aethor rose from the booth and slung it over his shoulder.
    "Well, my friends, I suppose we should either seek rest or seek supply. Although, I do not know the hour, nor the business times of this city."
     
  12. Kakashi

    Kakashi Call me Deacon Blues

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    Hassan watched as the Breton took the scroll and placed it within a bag at his side. He was unsure why the Breton had been the one to claim the allowance before him or the other man. However, Annifus had only furnished one scroll, and Hassan supposed one of them had to hold it - perhaps he should be thankful that the Breton took the responsibility for the task.

    "Well, my friends, I suppose we should either seek rest or seek supply. Although, I do not know the hour, nor the business times of this city."

    Hassan was unsure as well, but he had known many blacksmiths over the years, and he knew that they kept odd hours. Many would stay up all night by the light of their forge, and whatever time it was, it was worth a shot at equipping themselves before resting.

    Quickly, they introduced themselves. The Breton was called Aethor, and the Nord Ulfgir. Despite their varied backgrounds, they were all here for the same reason.

    After introductions, Hassan voiced his proposed plan: "Let us head south, and do our best to find a blacksmith. That way we shall be headed in the right direction whatever we decide." No one disagreed, so they made there way back out into the streets of Solitude.

    The sun was still in the sky, but was well on its way down. That informed them as to the time, and as to which direction was south. The newly formed company walked south, in search of a suitable equipper.

    Hassan quickly spotted a small storefront with a sign marked with an anvil, and led the others to its door. The shop was made of stone, and freestanding, to avoid the spreading of fires. As Hassan entered, he saw a squat Orc sitting in front of a furnace, a pair of tongs in his hand holding a half-crafted sword. Another Orc stood nearby, watching. Both of the Orcs wore leathers aprons and gloves.

    The Orc who was standing spoke as they entered. "Could I interest you folk in arms and armor?"
     
  13. Midnattblod

    Midnattblod Royal Wolf of Shadow

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    The scroll was placed on the table, and being content to not hold onto it, Ulfgir watched as hid new Breton companion slipped it into a bag at his side. He looked around and drank from his mead a bit more. He had no real need for the septims at this time anyway, having a small cottage just outside the city, where he could retrieve his personal bow and such.

    As he stood up, Ulfgir polished up the last of his mead, and nodded to the other two. "I'll meet you at the front gate at dawn then," he said. And with that, Ulfgir pushed his way back to the bar to return the now empty bottle before stepping back out into the cool air.

    He walked down the main road towards the front gate, contemplating the quest ahead all the way. It sounded simple enough, find clues to lead to some lunatics that wished to have arrows sticking out of them. This mental image had him chuckling as he exited the city proper, and made his way towards the small wooded area where sat his home.

    He was quite curious what the morrow would bring.
     
  14. RayCaptain

    RayCaptain Sojourning Traveler

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    Narzum, the charred corpse of an Orc stronghold along the borders of Winterhold and the Pale, was as it had been for the better part of a decade. All ashen heaps of what had been the homes and coals that had grown cold many years ago. The skeletal remains of the longhouse, the chief's domain in the middle, had collapsed on itself under the weight of last year's snow. Finally. The wall had been rebuilt, smaller and less impressive than usual but it had kept the wild out. One loan hut sat at the entrance, built mostly of downfall timber and animal skins. Smoke rose from the open middle and the smell of meat was on the crisp air. It was late in the evening and the sun would be setting soon.

    Two men, Nords, approached the burned over stronghold, weapons drawn, one a bow and the other an axe.

    "I told you it was here. Just like the old man said," The one with the axe whispered. He was wearing a sabre cat pelt and was taller than his companion; his beard was knotted and had a large ring at the bottom.

    "Just a squatter," The smaller one, with a bow, said. He had a mustache that continued up around his jaw and sideburns and wore snow fox pelts.

    "A squatter in an orc stronghold?" The ring-beard Nord scoffed, "You're scared!"

    "Am not!" The burnsided archer hissed.

    "You're shaking,"

    "Because it's frigid,"

    The axeman adjusted in their position behind some sparse shrubs, "That thing in there is the Scourge himself! And we're gonna bring his head in,"

    "We're going to ruin some wildman's dinner and get frostnipped," The smaller Nord brushed his moustache and notched an arrow on its string, "There's no Scourge, no Zealot, no tusk-face as tall as a tree,"

    A twig snapped and the two twisted behind them.

    "Tall as a tree?" The figure was larger than large. His tusks, a solid four inches or more, were pierced and had a ring in either and a band of stone above the ring, "That's a new one, and I prefer Uruk to Scourge," With a gravelly, croaky voice the Orsimer addressed his new company and shifted his great weight underneath the massive piece of metal slung over his shoulder. It was beaten into the shape of a sword but it was too large, too thick and heavy. Uruk smirked at the two Nords before him. He could smell that one or both of them had pissed themselves, "You boys come to sup with me or-"

    The shaking archer loosed an arrow, and it lodged itself into the Orc's arm. He grimaced but didn't flinch as he snapped it off and threw the broken shaft to the ground, "Have you heard of the Blood Price, Nords?" His voice had grown cold as he mulled the stinging pain at the wound, an intensity welled up inside him. The two Nords' faces sunk into despair, "I take that as a yes," The hulking piece of iron was lifted high up above the Orc and in one motion came down. The Nord archer shouted and sunk away, gripping his arm, the bow by his side.

    "You killed him!" The axeman bellowed and raised his axe, now trembling himself.

    "No," Uruk motioned and pulled his sword from the earth and snow and back to its position on his shoulder, "I took the Blood Price. A fair price," The axeman looked at his companion, in a heap on the ground, groaning in pain and blood streaming down his arm. The Orc looked at his own arm where a small piece of the arrow's shaft still stuck out and felt the searing of the head embedded in his muscular flesh, "Your friend will live..." His voice grew grim, a growl in his throat, "And you will go. Now," He gripped the sword's hilt with his second hand and postured. The axeman took up his friend and they made their way away in a panic, "Thanks for the gift! Maybe next time you can stay for supper!" He called after them and picked up the bow from the ground, making his way back to his camp, lifting the hut's animal skin door and ducking in, tossed the bow to the side of the entrance on a pile of similar weapons. The attackers came, once or twice a year usually. Some were hunting some kind of bounty, others fame for reaping the great Scourge of Narzum. They were the easiest to route. Then there were the other Orsimer. They were after the Zealot of Malacath. They did not come for bounty or thrill but for vengeance for what he had done to Narzum so many years ago. They were usually from Orsinium, the Orcish city in the Western Reach. Where Uruk had cut them down, where they had fallen, had been marked with tumnors, Orcish death stones, and their bodies laid to rest elsewhere.

    Uruk picked up a platter of tools. Pliers, a small blade, a bloody rag, among other things. At first, there were few hunters, Orc or Nord or otherwise, that came for him. Now there were more. He made an incision across from the arrowhead and laid the small knife back down on the platter. They came from all over now, not just Winterhold and from the Orsinium. A small group of Imperial legionaries, on leave or perhaps on duty he wasn't sure, had come for his head. They had not retreated. Their death spots had also been marked. Uruk grimaced and pushed the arrow deeper and through until the tip protruded from the other side. That had been a fight that had left him with many scars. They fought well and died well. He grasped the arrowhead with the pliers and pulled it through, tossing the bloody, broken thing onto the platter and placed the pliers beside and wrapped the bloody rags around his arm, tying it off in a knot.

    In the winter, the winds and ice and snow came. Well... There was always those up here on this lonely mountain, but in the winter it pushed the many animals deep into their caves into hibernation and then others went down off the mountain to the hills below. Since Uruk could not surive off tree bark and snow alone, he would go down with them and trade things in town - where others would trade with an Orc that was and he wasn't chased out - that he had gathered and made during the summer. Pelts, ores, and even some weapons and tools in Narzum's forge. Uruk was not a craftsman, not one of the great blacksmiths of the Orsimer, but he dabbled. And in the summer, the bounty hunters and Orsimer came to reap his soul and take his head. The winters grew longer and the summers grew more filled with hostility. It was time to move on.

    The Orc threw a log on the fire and poked at it until it caught. The pot above it bubbled and boiled and the smell of his meat stew permeated throughout. The time had come. This would be his last meal here.

    The last rays of light faded from the horizon.

    -

    The next morning, Narzum arose from his bedding of pelts and straw and gathered his things into a travel pack. Dried meats, water, some tools, and all the gold and silver he had, which wasn't much, the Nord's bow and some arrows he had, and his overcoat, made of a snow bear hide, with its hood that hid his face well. Though... No coat or hood could hide his immense size. And his sword. Hopefully he wouldn't have to use it, but...

    He had had a dream the night before. Of Solitude and its high walls. It was far, far to the west. Malacath often seldom gave him visions - or at least he presumed they were visions from his lord - but when he did Uruk heeded them. It would be many weeks, if he pushed hard, further than he had ever traveled in one go. Far from Narzum and his mountain and the surrounding villages and settlements. But there was nothing left for him here.

    Uruk kicked dirt onto dying fire and collected a last few things and exited his hut, taking a look one last time around the place that had been his home, his prison, since birth. He stopped and made a last offering to Malacath, a flagon of wine and a hunk of meat and sugar-lard. He prayed for a moment. Uruk preferred to keep his words sparse with mortal and god alike and he figured Malacath preferred it that way too.

    The old orc grunted, smacked his lips, and squinted to the east, the sun would be coming up soon. He turned west and began his lonesome march down the mountain and on his way west.

    -

    Uruk had been following the Karth river south. It had been many weeks, but he had come down from the mountain range between Winterhold and Eastmarch, across The Pale and Whiterun Hold, and arrived here where he had paused for a drink from one of the river's distributaries. The Orc filled his waterskin, his great weapon beside him, and happened a glance when he heard yammering off the way. He grimaced upon recognizing the men, two Nords, one with a knotted beard with a ring on the end and the other with a muttonchops and mustache. Uruk capped his waterskin and drew up his sword to go on his way, but he heard them... They had noticed.

    The Orc turned and placed his weapon between himself and the two just in time for an arrow to strike it and land to the side, "You boys can go on home. What are you doing so far out anyhow?"

    "I could ask you the same, tusk-face!" The bearded Nord hollered, "Notch another arrow, Lon, and this time hit him,"

    They were near but not so near that Uruk could reach them before Lon the archer might get in a killing blow. He had not come all this way just to die now by happenstance, by two halfwits that could not make a whole between them. The Orc sighed and drew in a deep breath. Lon loosed another arrow and it glanced off the broadside of the sword again. This was his chance.

    Summoning all of his strength, Uruk pulled the sword from the earth and twisted his body around, pivoting on his heel. With a great heave, the weapon went spinning through the air. There was a squish and a splatter and the weapon lodged itself into a tree. Where the two Nords had stood now lay four different pieces, each of them cleaved in half. Uruk closed his eyes and said a word to Malacath. They had gone for his life a second time and had paid the Blood Price for it. Blood for blood, life for life. Justice. It might have been a brutal law but it was a just law. Uruk went and retrieved his blade and looked about the landscape. An Orc killing two Nords in Skyrim? That was surely the prelude to a lynching. He sighed and rubbed the hair on his chin, fingering at the beads in it. Uruk went to the two corpses and said a blessing over them, hoping that they found an afterlife full of food and drink and fighting. Nords and Orsimer were very similar in mindset. Both were warrior-people. He respected them.

    There was no time for a proper burial, but Uruk marked where they fell with a death stone and dropped their bodies into the river where the cold water sucked them down into the depths. While carrying Lon's lower half, a satchel fell from his waist. Uruk picked it up from the ground and, out of curiosity, peered within. There were few personal effects but among them was a scroll that seemed... Out of place. The poor souls had not been wealthy, that was obvious from their clothes and, frankly, their smell. But what would have led Nords, probably from Eastmarch, all the way out here to Haafingar? He plucked the scroll from the bag and read it. It was a summons to a tavern in Solitude, the Winking Skeever. Never a thief, for it was against the Code of Marakath, Uruk mulled over the summons. He had not been sent this way without cause, even if he did not know what it was yet. But he had come this far... The Orsimer placed the scroll in his own pack.

    The rest of the way was otherwise uneventful. It was late in the afternoon when Uruk bid hello to the gate guards at Solitude; they exchanged greetings and the guards asked his business, where he was from, where he was going, and so on, the usual. The Orsimer had a reputation of being fiercely loyal soldiers within the Empire's Legions and, though they were perhaps not equals in the eyes of Imperials, there was perhaps some form of respect, but it was the guard's duty to be skeptical.

    "You're a big'n alright but is that sword really necessary?" One guard chuckled, "I've heard about Orcs and you, my friend, look to be compensating, eh?" They both laughed, "Alright, on with ya, and no lollygaggin',"

    Uruk made his way to the tavern and did as he preferred, to watch and observe. It was some time before he spotted them, obviously together, obviously of interest. It was more... Progressive here in Solitude, but there was still no reason for a Nords, Bretons, and Redguards to in company with one-another in this way. They seemed on a mission and made a bee-line for the smithy where he could see one of his bloodkin through the open doorway. Uruk leaned against the wall of the shop on the opposite side and continued to watch. Not making a scene but neither did he hide. A beast of his size could not very well "hide" then anyway could he? The Orsimer stroked his beard and adjusted his thick dreads. The owner of the shop he leaned against came out, as if to say something, noted Uruk's size and his sword, the two exchanged nods and the shop owner went back in. Uruk sniff, adjusted, and carried on watching.
     
  15. Mad Hatter

    Mad Hatter Loitering from 2009 - 2018

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    The orc came back outside with satchel around his waist, "Alright fellas? What are you in need of? I've got it all- Well, some. I've got some stuff."

    ------------------------------Store Inventory------------------------------
    Iron Battleaxe
    Iron Dagger
    Iron Hatchet
    Iron Longsword
    Iron Greatsword
    Iron Shield
    Hunting Bow
    Walking staff (No innate magical energy)
    Iron/Fur Chestplate
    Iron/Fur Legplates
    Iron/Fur Gauntlets
    Iron/Fur Boots
    Iron/Fur Helmet
    Minor Potion of Health
    Minor Potion of Magicka
    Minor Potion of Stamina
    Sweetroll
    Honningbrew Mead
    ------------------------------Store Inventory------------------------------


    "So, what'll it be?"
     
  16. Kakashi

    Kakashi Call me Deacon Blues

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    The Orc who had been standing, his question still unanswered, headed toward the entrance of the shop and exited. It was then that Hassan was alerted to another figure outside the shop - another Orc. Hassan figured that the third Orc was a friend of the smiths, and when the shopkeeper re-entered without mention or apparent concern, Hassan assumed that was the case. In any event, there was no apparent danger posed by the third figure - at least not at the moment.

    Upon re-entering, the Orc posed the question "So, what'll it be?"

    Hassan had left his armor in Hammerfell. Annifus had offered to buy anyone accepting the quest new gear, and such an offer was one Hassan had intended to follow. Bringing only his sword, as was the case, Hassan needed a full suit of armor, as well as a shield. His share of the 500 septims would be more than enough to cover such equipment. Further, Ulfgir, their third companion, had went home to fetch his own equipment, meaning the funds would stretch even further.

    "Could you equip me in a full suit of iron armor, along with a suitable shield?" Hassan answered.

    Turning to Aethor, Hassan left the floor open for his companion, figuring he would leave the potions and more magical goods to his capable ally.
     
  17. warrior_squirrel21

    warrior_squirrel21 the poor mans old breed

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    "Ah, Zenithar guides us well this day. A wonderful selection."
    The blades before Aethor were crudely beautiful to his eyes. Though the Nordic swords seemed basic, the weapons resonated function while retaining fashion. They were robust, with hidden intricacies that revealed a commanding balance of craftsmanship.
    The unfortunate reality was that Aethor had no need for one. As a perk of his position on The Drowned Council, Aethor was bound to a sword of draining. Although all members of the Council possessed one, and the handles were all crafted from the impressively stalwart bones of Marlordes, the blades of these magic tools were all somewhat...differing. His was called Guile, and the magic used to bind them was old and almost forgotten. For considerable magica, the sword could be summoned and would not dissipate until it left Aethors hand. He had been given a mighty staff as well, but Aethor would not have dreamed of bringing it on this quest, indeed the Council would not have allowed him a moments thought of it. The staffs of s were ancient, and incredibly limited. Each one was passed down, or brought out of retirement in a cycle ages old. Their use outside of guaranteed protection, or recovery, was unthinkable.
    It occurred to Aethor that without his staff, his ability to fight relied solely on his magica reserves. They were ample, regenerated at an efficient rate, and he hadn't run out of magica in a fight since he was a teen. But a wise man always prepares for the unfortunate.

    "Perhaps the dagger for myself," Aethor said, "and the staff"
    Smiling with the last words, he was offered the items to inspect. The dagger was long and sturdy, not decorated, and certainly not magical, but it would do in a pinch. And the staff? Well it would be nice to walk with something, even if it were a magic-less branch. Its arcane ability was irrelevant.

    Any self respecting mage owns a staff, but no self respecting mage needs a staff.

    "These will do wonderfully." Aethor produced the scroll of allowance to the ork merchant and explained its conditions, to which he halfheartedly complied.
    "I would like to add three magica and three health potions to the order, and please do remember to include my companions armor and the like as well."