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Snippet #2445018

located in Tamriel, a part of The Elder Scrolls: Civil War, one of the many universes on RPG.

Tamriel

The realm of Tamriel.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: [NPC] Bartender Character Portrait: Varis Henna Character Portrait: The Fighter's Guild Character Portrait: Bjorn Haldorson Character Portrait: Nine-Fingers Character Portrait: Dar'Kiir Character Portrait: Willow Blurbranch Character Portrait: Shya Snowstep
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Bolgrim walked through a wide hallway within an old, Nord ruin. He couldn't remember the name at the time, but it was obvious the place had been picked clean by treasure hunters weeks earlier. But the Altmer wasn't here for plunder of gems and septims dancing upon armor and weapons, he was here for something far richer than that; knowledge. He loved delving into these ancient crypts, more so for his own curiosity of exploration and the occasional thrill of slaughtering draugur, but also the ironic nod that an Altmer that was once part of the Thalmor Dominion, was now roaming the halls of the dead of Nord ancestors. He made a right act to disrupt, destroy, and all out act disgraceful or offensive towards the halls in his own odd ways. Removing the clothes, breaking the weapons, denting the armor, stealing what little coin and trinkets he could find, before burning the bodies in another room. The draugur were mocked openly with zeal and Bolgrim made it the most obvious initiative to spit and urinate on the small totem dedicated to Talos. He further confirmed his mark and hate for the race by yelling mockery and Altmer war chants to piss off the spirits. In short; Bolgrim acted like a right prick within the sacred burial grounds of the Nord dead. Nevertheless, all the jeers, mockery, and lewd acts of insults ceased when he came to a main chamber where a Word Wall stood proudly before him. At an instant, he made camp and decided to stay a bit longer to translate and indulge himself in the little bit of sanctuary within Skyrim for once. He hated this province, he hated the cold, he hated the people, and he sure as hell hated marching around in it. Too many bad memories and too much of a risk that he couldn't show his faces in the majority of the holds. Why return to a location where your bounty is high enough that even a Jarl of other holds is sending his guard and hired muscle to hunt you down?

Yet it wasn't the chance to mock the spirits of the dead or any basic intention that drove Bolgrim out of hiding, it was the letter he received days earlier from a friend at the College of Winterhold. Admittedly, their 'bond' wasn't really formal or practical, let alone was it anything sturdy to rely upon, but Bolgrim entrusted Hollindir in that odd acceptance of mentor to student method. They hadn't talked in what felt like years, though. Hollindir was a prodigal Bosmer when it came to alchemy, rough around the edges, but Bolgrim honed the Bosmer right as a worthy apprentice in the arts and in no time Hollindir seemed to border on worshiping the Altmer in some odd ways. Sadly, companionship ended and Bolgrim forced to flee. Still, it was good to hear from Hollindir, he was one of the only few beings in Skyrim that knew of his whereabouts on a monthly basis...

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Bolgrim ceased reading for a moment and rolled his eyes. What gave this whelp any right to scold him like a parent!? He shook his head, mumbling something about cheeky Bosmer and tensed up when he heard something. He halted with his slow pacing of re-reading the letter and frowned as he looked around the chamber. He could have sworn he heard something....and what was that smell? He looked up at the stairway that led towards the upper corridors to other rooms and glanced over at a corpse of a draugr, hoping it was that, but this was something fresh. Something new. What was once musty tomes and embalming materials lingering in with the stench of the undead, was now the familiar stink of Orc ass crack and stale food. Bolgrim took one more look around and returned to his reading once more by skipping over the bits of perpetual nagging.

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Suddenly, Bolgrim felt a sudden surge of pain wrack up his side and body, the scream he tried to let out was silenced by someone coming from behind to gag him with a dirty cloth over his nose and mouth. He fought back by ramming his elbows into the being and reaching sideways to yank the arrow from his torso. The bleeding hole dribbling against his robes while the feeling of a poison coursed through his veins. He felt the numbing of a paralyze potion rush up his arm, causing his hand to go limp and the entire limb to ragdoll. He panted, a bite of fear making him shiver as he whipped around fast enough with his hand glowing bright in warning. The orc hunter stood with his bow drawn, and arrow ready to fire again.

"YOU SON OF A BI-"

The Altmer was cut off again, this time by another orc, much larger, bullrushing him and slamming him to the ground. The muffled crack of a rib breaking caused Bolgrim to cry out in pain as he felt hands grab his arms in hopes to pull them behind his back. He didn't allow this! He rolled hard, freeing himself from being touched yet again before using his foot to kick at an Orc in the head. A loud yelp from the Orc, then the twang of a bow letting an arrow fly struck him in the back. Another poisoned arrow riddled with paralyzing affects made him stagger.

Bolgrim spat out blood from his mouth and shot an electric blast of energy at the Orc warrior making a mistake to move in. The blast of magic sent the being flying across the room, crashing into the table and the stink of sweat and burnt to a crisp skin clashed with the melting of hot metals. Bolgrim panted hard, a painful heave made him loll his head sideways to stare at the Orc archer. Face showing livid fury and rage, he moved forward. Then he collapsed. Panting and body flopping to the ground due to the paralyze poison making him unable to move. He tried to move, face smeared over with dirt and blood while a heavy boot rammed itself into his stomach. He felt the pain, he wanted to cry out, but found himself unable to speak. With one swift motion, he was picked up and dragged out by two Orcs. Hands bound, and bag swiftly thrown over his head. Captured like a Horker.

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"Alright! Listen up! Gather around! Yeah you! Hey! SHUT UP!" Dirge barked loudly at the small contingent of Guild Members he was required to lead. He and this lot of newcomers were given a basic task; roam around the holds, get information, and report if anything has been found. Simple, clean, and not oh so hard to fuck up. The lot of them had spent nearly a week and a half running on the roads between holds and villages asking anyone or anything about their search. For the time, there was nothing to be had. Nobody knew whom they were looking for, and those that knew were lying and keeping their mouths shut. Dirge had quite a hell of a time finding what he managed to snag, but after much persuasion (and a fat lot of coin) he managed to get a lead that would hopefully point them in the right direction.

The lot of them sat in The Winking Skeever in Solitude, some were drinking, others were eating, many were indulging themselves with music and laughter. Dirge was the current leader of about fifteen of these bastards, five of them somewhat new and fresh off the chopping block would be watched over carefully. In a way, this would be another initiation and expectation to make their reputation hold firm with their fellow guild members.

"You got an hour to collect your things, sharpen your weapons, and get stocked up on whatever you need! We leave for Morthal!" Dirge barked while tossing a bagged something on the table. One of the members leaned in, curious of the bag while staring up at Dirge. "Managed to ask around Solitude and it just so happens the fell'er we're lookin for often comes in and out of here every once in a while to shop for clothes. Right faggot, in my opinion, but guess where he shops?" Dirge said while folding his arms over his chest.

"Radiant Raiments. Owned by those two stuck up Altmer bitches. They couldn't tell me shit, but I managed to get a word out of one of the guards, says he saw a strange looking Elf skulking about before leaving town and heading towards Morthal. You know the routine! Now get to packin! Meet me near the docks. If you're late, you're fucked. Either catch up or go back to explain why you can't be competent enough to pay attention!" Dirge snapped bluntly before turning away to leave the tavern, his armor clinking nosily behind him.