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Claren

"Give me direction. Before I hurt someone again."

0 · 154 views · located in Skyrim

a character in “Skyrim: The Mentor & The Sellswords”, as played by Everscale

Description

CLAREN

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Image

Basic Info

Name: Claren (Clare, Clara, Viper)
Race: Imperial
Age: 25
Gender: Female

Personality

Claren is a creature of fire and ice. She finds her entertainment by reeling men in, giving them a little of what they want, and then vanishing from underneath their noses. By definition Claren is dangerous. She thirsts for everything it is in her power to have – sex, money, drink, blood, it doesn’t matter, as long as she has to fight to get it. Claren is fascinated by a good challenge. She picks at people’s subconscious, irritates them often until they snap at her. Claren puts her life on the line with most everything she does, though somehow she has managed not to die. Yet. Wild, unrestrained, and unafraid to take the life of anyone who crosses her, had any other history found her, she would probably be locked in some jail. Or worse, dead. She has been told this before, but the thought does not serve as a deterrent. She is thrilled by it, by dodging guards and slipping out of the hands of government by the width of a single hair on her head. Bored and self-destructive, left to her own devices she would likely take her own life, in one way or another, simply to experience the feeling of death.
Yet somehow, Claren manages to retain a fairly normal persona. Her suicidal nature came of a difficult childhood and an even more difficult adolescence. She feels no desire to protect herself, because she feels no respect or desire for life. She is nevertheless a jovial person – a fact which makes those who know her rather nervous – always laughing and smiling, her words laced with sarcastic teasing. Lust-driven and sensual, she is a highly independent woman. Anyone who suggests she can not do things for herself might lose something rather… important to them, via the tip of her lethal blade.
Above all other things, Claren is confused. A viciously loyal friend, but violent and unpredictable. Fighting hard to keep herself alive, and yet risking her own life around every turn. She lashes out wildly, seeking direction – the Mentor gave her that direction. Without it, she is lost. She is a creature in conflict, afraid of what she knows she will become without the man she came to see as a new father.

Equipment

Claren wears simple armor of steel chain links – strong enough to protect her in the heat of battle but flexible enough to allow her to move. She bears twin swords – one quick and light, for teasing combat, the other two-handed and thicker than a man’s arm, enabling her to switch styles at will. She carries no shield. She feels no need for one, nor for magic – she has never trained that ability beyond the basic healing and flame spells.
Claren travels remarkably light. Generally she has nothing more than her armor, some gold, her weapons, and a few day’s rations on her person. She has no need for anything else. Her tool of trade is her own body, and that is a difficult thing to lose track of.

Abilities

Claren is a snake-bite fighter – move in quick, hit hard. She has preferences towards ambush, and her blood boils in the heat of battle. She loses the control it takes to stop fighting, which adds to her strength, but impairs her judgement. She is a prodigal swordswoman. She also has so medical experience – limited to the less lethal wounds of battle, but still useful.
Perhaps her most prominent and trained skills are seduction and murder. She does not flinch at a brutal kill, even enjoys toying with her victims, and for most of her young life she survived by drawing men into her dwelling, entertaining them.

History

Claren’s parents never had much of a permanent residence, and neither did she, even after they died. She spent her childhood wandering, on foot or on the backs of stolen horses, from one city to the next while her mother and her father sought out jobs on the streets. Her mother, Anetta, was a common whore, her father Sarzon a thief who would do anything asked for the right price. Claren wanted, at that age, to be a normal girl, but never got the chance. Every time she made a friend, they moved on. Her parents taught her thievery and murder and seduction, taught her to use any skill she could to survive. They shaped her into a thriving warrior. A lucky thing, really – she was twelve when they died.
She continued their wandering tradition, using the skills Anetta and Sarzon had left her with. She never settled long in one place, often making trouble for herself and being forced to flee to keep her head on her shoulders. By the age of fourteen she was a very pretty young woman, very strong and skilled with a sword. She discovered what her mother had discovered at her age – one’s body is a tool for the generation of funds. So it was that fourteen year old Claren became a prostitute, just like the mother she had hated for it.
In the chaos of her new life, Claren was forced to do things to survive that she would never have done as a child. Her parents had always done most of the killing for her. She had never had to see the light die in a man’s eyes. Struggling to adjust, Claren warped her own mind to keep herself from going entirely mad. She began to enjoy the prostitution, the thievery, the murder. She took a thrill from it, from the adrenaline. Shut away the emotions of a normal human being. That love for chaos is something she has never been able to abandon.
She was in Solitude when the Mentor found her, having traveled there in search of fresh targets for her various areas of expertise. At first she mistook him for a client, but things changed rapidly. Her automatic reaction to realizing he was here to interfere was to try to kill him. She was a good warrior, but not that good – she failed. Claren thought the man would kill her for it.
Clearly, he did not. He took her with him, South to his Manor, and taught her to turn her burning desire for action towards something good. The Mentor made her a Sellsword. It was a good outlet for her various forms of lust, though she still spends far too much time lying with strange men for the fun of it. At least, under the Mentor’s guidance, she was not murdering men in the streets simply because they were there. Her sword had a purpose, a direction. The chaos in her mind was, for the time, aimed at something.
What she will do now that the Mentor is gone, young Claren does not know. Her devotion to him was complete, her love for him greater than any in the world. Genuine love. Not lust, like for other men, not sworn loyalty, like to her father. The deep and true love of a daughter saved from destruction by a man she came to know as a father. It became a driving force in her life. She grieves more deeply for his loss, now, that she has ever grieved for anything. And she fears what she will become without him.

OOC

These questions will let me know a little more about you as a player.

What experience do you have with the Elder Scrolls universe?: I have played some of Oblivion and some of Skyrim. Unfortunately I do not own a console myself, so I do not get to play often.
How often do you get online?: Every day almost without fail.
How often can we expect you to be able to post?: As often as I have enough to work with. It is my sole form of entertainment so if I feel the other players have presented enough material to put out a solid post, I will put out a solid post. I will never post a weak post for the sake of posting.
Password: Fusrodah!

So begins...

Claren's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Claren Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal Character Portrait: Demea Ravenwing Character Portrait: Aria Windfoot Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Cassadin Hawke Character Portrait: Lok-Indra Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: S'Baad
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Contents
Prologue: Without a Leader
Chapter I: The Shadow Over Markarth
Chapter II: Hammer, Feather, and Flame
Chapter III: The Game Begins
Chapter IV: A Nest of Vipers
Chapter V: Waking Nightmares
Chapter VI: The Darkest Places
Chapter VII: The Fair Maiden
Chapter VIII: War Without, War Within
Chapter IX: The Library
Chapter X: Coldharbor
Epilogue: The Way Forward

Skyrim...

It was a land in turmoil. For years tensions had been on the rise between the Empire, seeking only to maintain peace in their northern province, to stay the wrath of the Aldmeri Dominion, and the local Nords, who believed their way of life was being threatened, and rightly so. The Elven Thalmor, representatives of the Dominion, sought to banish worship of Talos, and there was little the Empire could do to oppose them. Tensions reached a breaking point when Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, began his rebellion against the Empire by slaughtering the High King of Skyrim, Torygg, in spectacular fashion. Civil war appeared certain in Skyrim, at least until the Empire managed to lure Ulfric into a trap, forcing him and his men to surrender without a fight. The rebel Stormcloaks were then transported to the castle-town of Helgen, to be publicly executed, along with another individual who did not yet realize his importance. However, things did not go as Imperial General Tullius had planned. Helgen found itself attacked and destroyed by a creature out of myths and legends, and Ulfric and his loyal Stormcloak soldiers found themselves free once more... but these events have yet to reach the ears of anyone beyond the nearby town of Riverwood...

And though these events were of great import to the fate of the land itself, they are not the focus of this story, merely the backdrop. In the west of Skyrim, near Solitude, the Empire's seat of power in the province, was a large manor belonging to a man that went almost exclusively by the name of "The Mentor." It was a large building, complete with separate bed quarters, a large dining hall, a small library, training grounds, capable of housing perhaps a dozen individuals, and it was currently near its capacity. Those inside had experienced incredible amounts of change over the courses of their lives. Some had been murderers, others thieves, addicts, scum, monsters in the wild. They were none of these things now, due to the their Mentor's influence. Their lives and their talents had been turned towards a nobler purpose, and one by one, they became part of a group that had come to be known as The Sellswords. They were a guild of sorts, albeit one that wasn't openly accepting recruits. And though they didn't come close to the fame that the members of the fabled Companions received, the Sellswords did develop a reputation for being perhaps the most altruistic band of mercenaries in the land. The Mentor alone determined the contracts they would accept, and he and his recruits carried them out. For a time, all of their lives seemed to be on the mend. They were atoning for their past mistakes, finding out what they could do with their talents when they set their minds to it. They were building bonds of friendship, growing a sense of camaraderie. They were finding something of a purpose in the harsh, inhospitable north.

All that threatened to change upon the Mentor's disappearance. He had left the Manor before, often returning with new members for the others to meet, but not like this. He hadn't warned any of his students, hadn't given any plans to leave, hadn't received any contracts that day... nothing. It was as though he had simply up and left. And even though no one saw the Mentor depart, in their hearts, they could all feel it. The Mentor was gone, and he wouldn't be returning of his own accord. The Sellswords had always looked to him for guidance. Now he was gone, and they would have to decide for themselves what path to take. For many, the evils of their pasts would once again begin to creep up upon them, without the Mentor's guidance holding it back. All of them feared returning to the lives they had once led. some didn't have a choice; they could never go back. The only way was forward... to find the Mentor, and to find the answers behind it all.

All they had to go on was the hastily written note that had been found on his desk...




Prologue
Without a Leader



Dom Drayk
The Mentor's Manor, Dining Hall



Give him a chance. I believe in him. I believe in you. It starts in Markarth.

Drayk read the poorly scribbled note for what must have been the hundredth time that night. He hadn't even learned to read until the Mentor taught him two years ago. He knew the Mentor's handwriting, he'd stared at it for hours and hours those first few months, resisting the urge to light the paper on fire when he got frustrated. This didn't look like the Mentor's handwriting. It looked... like it was written in a panic. And in all the time he'd known the Mentor, and in all the time the others had known the Mentor (which was longer than Drayk, for some), they had never seen the man panic. He moved quickly when he needed to, but never panicked. But who would have written the note if not the Mentor? No one had gone up to see him in his study, no one new had entered the manor, and no one had left, for that matter. No one but the Mentor. Everything pointed to the Mentor leaving this note, and then simply vanishing without so much as a trace.

A full moon shone through one of the windows into the dining hall. It was somewhere around midnight now, meaning it had been over eight hours since anyone had seen the Mentor. Drayk sat in the chair to the right of the Mentor's, who had always sat at the head of their long table. It was a massive dining hall; perhaps three times their number could have comfortably enjoyed a meal in it. There was only one person missing from it now, but it felt as though the entire building was empty to Drayk.

More than anything, he felt frustrated. Everything the Mentor did made sense to him. Everything. Except this. Why would he leave like this? He wasn't dead, Drayk knew that much. The finest killer in the Dark Brotherhood wouldn't have stood a chance at bringing him down. He'd had time to write a note, albeit a poor one, so it didn't seem likely he was abducted or something ridiculous like that. Drayk had concluded that the man he'd known as a father had simply left in the middle of the day, without speaking to anyone, or being seen by anyone, and that there was a very good chance he wasn't coming back any time soon. It frustrated him to no end, and Drayk had learned that frustration turned his humor particularly acidic. He reminded himself to speak only when necessary tonight.

The Sellswords had gathered in the dining hall for an impromptu meeting of sorts. They had no leader now, so they had sort of just rallied here for a lack of a better place to be. It had been confusion, and a good few hours of searching the grounds before they'd concluded that the Mentor was nowhere to be found. And though it was midnight, of course none of them felt like sleeping. The Mentor was a symbol of their newfound purpose, and now he was gone. So they'd gathered for a talk, to determine their course of action. To Drayk, it was clear.

"It starts in Markarth," he said, sliding the note out onto the table. Everyone had seen it already, but it was still the only scrap of evidence they had to go on. "I say we start there. Take the horses and ride out at first light."

He looked around at the faces in the room. At Claren, Sinderion, Adrienne, Cassadin, Demea, Lok-Indra, Aria, Vanryth, and S'Baad. They were a screwed up bunch, but they were family now, and Drayk knew that whatever they did, they had to do as a group. They had no Mentor to lean on now, which meant they were just going to have to rely on each other.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Claren Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal Character Portrait: Demea Ravenwing Character Portrait: Aria Windfoot Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Cassadin Hawke Character Portrait: Lok-Indra Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: S'Baad
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Sinderion Direnni
Mentor's Manor, Dining Hall


Sinderion sat immediately across the table from Drayk, expending a great deal of effort to remain as impassive as possible. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he clenched it, and he consciously made himself relax, smoothing out the tawny features of his face. His eyes- an unusual robin’s egg blue that suited neither his personality nor his lineage- never left the paper in his compatriot’s hand.

Presently, he was propped on the table by his elbows, arms folded across one another in an attempt to convey nonchalance, or at least less anxiety than he was truly feeling, but the way his feet curled around the legs of the chair for stability was a dead giveaway to his discomfiture. It was not every day that one’s life flipped completely upside down; indeed, prior to this morning it had happened but once in his life. That had been a change for the better, an opportunity to claw his way out of the hole into which he’d fallen, though that was perhaps an unfortunate choice of idiom.

This, he could not help but feel, was the opposite kind of upheaval.

Still, there must yet be a reasonable explanation, something they were overlooking or simply did not have the evidence to see. Sinderion had been under the tutelage of the Mentor for eleven years, and never once in this time span had he known the man to do anything without a solid plan, set three or more phases in advance, and thought through as thoroughly as possible. In all likelihood, Sinder would outlive the one who had saved him, without ever attaining that kind of wisdom. But that in itself was an unpleasant thought on at least two levels, and he banished it from his mind.

What bothered him the most was that, despite this, and despite the advantages provided by senses well beyond the norm for man, mer, or beast race, he could say no more about what had occurred than anyone else. By the time he’d begun his search of the grounds, the Mentor’s scent had been obscured just as surely as any trace he might have left behind, save the one solid piece of understanding they possessed: the note. This was peculiar on its own for too many reasons to enumerate, and it would be pointless to list them aloud anyway, for the others surely understood why he was troubled by it.

His worse half spurned his present state of intellectualization and demanded action, something which the rest of him could not wholly disagree with. Their lives were disturbed, a massive change in the pattern of their existences for which the only viable solution was reversal- they needed the Mentor back, as soon as possible. Even so… who was he? And what caused the need for such haste that the context of these three statements could not be explained?

At last, Sinderion tore his gaze from the parchment, unsatisfied but willing to admit to himself that for now, it would be keeping its secrets from him, however much he wished it were otherwise. His vision flickered from one member of his strange little family to the next, taking in expressions, words, body language. He was not as skilled at interpreting such things as Adrienne, but he knew most of them well enough to pick up on a few quirks of habit and idiosyncrasies of action. Dysfunctional was an understatement, but like everything else, the Mentor had managed to make it work. The altmer could only hope that the tenuous bonds of broken souls slowly mending themselves would hold in his absence for long enough to bring back his presence, whatever that meant.

Whatever that took.

Drayk was visibly upset, but he was also proposing what seemed to Sinderion to be a reasonable course of action. Slowly, the elf nodded. Under most circumstances, he would have left it at that; a small declaration of assent- no fanfare, no dramatics. This situation, he thought, deserved something a bit more than the merest agreement.

“I do not understand what has occurred, but I would not wager that it will be as simple as finding him there. If it starts in Markarth, it will likely end elsewhere. All the same, that seems the best thing to do at the moment.” It was not a particularly optimistic thought, but then that wasn’t what he thought most of them needed. Being honest with them about what he thought this would involve would hopefully allow them to do the same with each other, and prepare them all as much as was possible for a longer venture than one to a city in the south.

He did not know how long it would take to find the Mentor, and he could only hope that they would all be there at the end of it, as little worse for wear as possible.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Claren Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal Character Portrait: Ulysses Character Portrait: Demea Ravenwing Character Portrait: Aria Windfoot Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Cassadin Hawke Character Portrait: Lok-Indra Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: S'Baad Character Portrait: Bellatrix "Bella" Whitewater
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Vanryth Galero
The Mentor’s Manor – Dining Hall




Tap, tap, tap...

An incessant tapping came from the oldest in the room, a scarred Dunmer sitting amongst his compatriots at the table. The quill in his hand drummed the table beside a piece parchment with his scrawling and thoughts. This was how he communicated fine thoughts to his companions now, through ink and paper. The reason was clear when he yawned, revealing an absence of where his tongue should have been. Vanryth quickly covered his mouth to save everyone from the sight of his disability. Once clear of his yawn, he rubbed his beard in quiet contemplation.

Like everyone else in the room, Van tried to think about what could have caused this sudden disappearance. The Mentor was always thoughtful enough to tell someone if he was going to go away for a bit, and he always came back eventually. This did not feel like one of those times where he would make his way back. Something felt... Different. Perhaps it was the note left behind. Hastily written, so unlike the Mentor. Van was much like Drayk in this regard, the Mentor had also taught Van how to read and write, though writing proved to be more useful to him than it did to Van. He wondered what could make the Mentor jot a note down in such haste... The Mentor was always patient and seemed like a careful man. It was a puzzle. And Van hated puzzles.

His hand now had drifted up and leaned on the table, covering up the left side of his face, obscuring the scars and the once crimson- now clouded eye. His vision didn't suffer from the obstruction as the sight was stolen from that eye. A thousand thoughts rushed through his mind, and he was agitated that he could not voice all of them. Though the clear mind that the mentor had instilled in him knew that the thoughts were useless, even if he had a voice. Those around him were the only ones (to his knowledge) who knew much of the Mentor, and even then it was scant. Most of them- Vanryth included- only knew him as the man who had saved them and put them on the right track.

Van sighed heavily and took a drink from the goblet that sat on the other side of his parchment. Alcoholic, no doubt. While the Mentor had succeeded in locking some of Van's demons away, more sprung up from the cracks of Van's psyche. This was one of them, the drink. The taste of it didn't matter- for obvious reasons- only the strength. Though he knew better than to over indulge on this night. The same could not be said on most other nights however. Van ventured a peak out of the window nearest him and was greeted by the sight of the full moon. It was high in the sky- marking it late in the evening or early in the morning. The sight of the moon caused him to shoot a glance at Sinderion before returning to the parchment in front of him.

Drayk was the first to break the silence. Van stopped the rythmic tapping of his quill as he spoke.

"It starts in Markarth. I say we start there. Take the horses and ride out at first light."

It was the next logical step it seemed. The Mentor had left them the note to follow, and it was rare that they went against his wishes. Though, Van couldn't help but wonder at what they would find in Markarth once they arrived.

Next Sinderion spoke.

“I do not understand what has occurred, but I would not wager that it will be as simple as finding him there. If it starts in Markarth, it will likely end elsewhere. All the same, that seems the best thing to do at the moment.”

Vanryth nodded along as he spoke. The boy had a point. Nothing was ever that simple. Though it was the only option they had at that moment, and Van was never the one to just sit around and do nothing. He pushed his hair back and leaned forward over the parchment and set his quill to writing. Vanryth finished his scratching and turned the parchment around and pushed it forward to allow those around him to read his words. The parchment was already full of Van's previous questions and statements- all marked through to allow for easier reading:

Vanryth Galero wrote:Where is the Mentor?

What do you mean gone? Where Oblivion's name did he go?

I'll check around the stables.

He's not here at all then?

Markarth? What's in Markarth? And who the hell is "him"?

I agree, we should heed the note. Too many questions not to. Let us just hope it doesn't lead to more questions. Though what we do when we reach Markarth is beyond me...



Vanryth leaned back with goblet in hand and allowed his misfit family to read his note. Van felt restless, like he needed to get up and get to Markarth that very instant. In his youth, he'd be out the door within minutes and saddled up for the road. With age comes wisdom as they say, and Van knew the wisdom of patience for now. It didn't mean he liked it and his subtle movements bespoke of his restlessness and eagerness.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Claren Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal Character Portrait: Demea Ravenwing Character Portrait: Aria Windfoot Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Cassadin Hawke Character Portrait: Lok-Indra Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: S'Baad
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Adrienne Jastal
The Mentor’s Manor – Dining Hall


Skyrim. A civil war was tearing the land apart at the seams, and all she could think was that it would scarcely have mattered to her in the slightest, save that right now, she could sympathize, for her world was shattering.

Was it selfish, to think that way? Adrienne supposed it must be, but… maybe, in its own way, that was a good thing. It meant there was some kind of self there to be concerned about, and for the longest time, she had feared that once all the layers of lies and disguises had been peeled away, there would be nothing left at all. But there was. At the very least, there was someone who loved the Mentor and was concerned for the welfare of his other fledglings.

If he stayed gone, how much longer would that remain? She’d rather weather the battlefield a thousand times than find out. Her concerns were the same as the concerns of the others: why would he leave without telling them? Why did that note look almost as if it belonged to someone else? Who was the ‘he’ mentioned, and why would his message to them contain such a cryptic reference? Her first thought was that perhaps this was some other comrade that the Mentor had left to save, but that was never something he carried out without warning them well in advance.

Beneath the table, her hands clenched together, knuckles turning white. Situated as she was between Drayk and Van, she could see all of the others’ faces without trouble. Sinderion was trying to maintain his almost supernatural stoicism, but his lines were tenser than usual. Drayk wasn’t even bothering to hide his apprehension, and she resisted the urge to place a hand on his shoulder. That wouldn’t help anyone right now, after all. What they needed was a solution. Van was cupping one side of his face in his hand, scratching away at the parchment in front of him with dogged persistence. Though he still made her a little more wary than the others, she had volunteered herself to read his written missives to them, on the rationale that it was the nice thing to do, and she had discovered that she liked doing nice things.

“Vanryth says he agrees and we should heed the note, that there are too many questions not to do so. He hopes it won’t only lead to more questions, though, and points out that he doesn’t know what we’re supposed to do when we reach Markarth.” She paused for a moment, and considered the implied question in that. “It seems to me as though there’s no reason we cannot simply ask around first. We all know that our Mentor has something of a reputation in areas of ill repute, for example, and checking with innkeepers never hurts.” There was, in fact, much information to be had this way, and one of her skills happened to be collecting it, but of course this time it would likely require all of them to check the city over thoroughly enough.

Still, he’d never led them astray before. If he said Markarth, there was bound to be something there that they needed to see or hear. Perhaps someone. Ordinarily, the prospect of a puzzle would have lit a peculiar light in Adrienne’s doe-black eyes and placed a small smile on her face, but at the moment, it was all she could do not to weep as her stability was ripped out from under her. All of that foundation, those first tentative steps towards living a worthy life as a worthy person, they had all been built on him. A few supports now leaned on the others: Sinderion, Cassadin, Drayk, Demea even, and all the rest to an extent… but the majority of the burden had been the Mentor’s, and now it was all hers again, long before she was ready for it to be so. The weight was crushing, and she felt her ordinarily perfect posture slackening somewhat, as though it were also physical.

She looked down at her hands in her lap, taking steady breaths despite her turmoil. They’d once handled so many poisons and venomous dealings that she’d thought herself almost toxic. They’d very nearly brought a blade to many throats or wrists, and none had been closer than her own. But the thought of crashing back into that life, into that persona, was still repulsive to her, and that was surely a good thing. She could so this. They all could do this.

Adrienne swore right then and there that she’d do whatever she could to make sure they found the Mentor and remained themselves doing it. It was not an impressive vow, there was no grand proclamation involved, just a silent promise to all of them. I will try. I cannot promise I will succeed, but I will try.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Claren Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal Character Portrait: Demea Ravenwing Character Portrait: Aria Windfoot Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Cassadin Hawke Character Portrait: Lok-Indra Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero
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Lok-Indra
Mentor's Manor (Dining Hall)

A feeling of angst consumed the air as confusion set in everyone's mind. Fear, panic, resentment, anger, and many other feelings ran rampant throughout the room. Lok peered around the room looking at his companions. His hands began to tremble with terror. He felt the loathing and bewilderment seeping back into his being. He caressed his staff in a calming matter. It was given to him by the mentor and always seemed to calm his mind. As Lok surveyed the room an intense feeling of dread came over him.

As he mulled over the situation a sudden realization came to him. He knew nothing of the mentor. "Who was he, where was he born, what was his past. Everyone else in this room has tattered atrocious pasts brought together by the mentors efforts. Not one of them had any resemblance of a normal life. What kind of person would be contempt living with all these monsters. Maybe he discarded us. It would be the first time any of us had faced abandonment.

All that was left was a cryptic note. "Give him a chance. I believe in him. I believe in you. It starts in Markarth." Lok read the note numerous times. It was only thanks to the mentor that he could read and write the in the languages of men and mer. While he can fully comprehend the language his speech was still a little broken. The room seemed to be filled with everyone agreeing to venture to Markarth to investigate further.

While Lok was reflecting on what action to take he saw Van slide a parchment with a few of his notes scribbled on it. One question in particular peaked Lok's curiosity. "Markarth? What's in Markarth? And who the hell is him?" "Him"... Lok began to wonder who was the person the mentor was referring too as him. Did "him" refer to a new member or a current member of the sellswords. Was this a test for one of the sellswords to lead the rest the way the mentor had. The mentor was getting older, it's possible he realized that his band of misfits would dissolve were he to suddenly pass away. Maybe this was a test to find someone that he could entrust to lead when he is gone. Lok gazed across the room at everyone. He never really trusted any man or mer except for the mentor. The thought of following another filled his mind with anger.

Everyone seemed in agreement with doing whatever it took to find the mentor. But what would it take. Many of them are wanted criminals throughout the land. Only thanks to the mentor's influences are they able to roam freely. Even with his influence there are many places that have not forgave their transgressions. Would they be allowed just to waltz into Markarth. Or would the guards be summoned to stop them at the gate. Lok did not want to throw away all the progress he made with the mentor by slaughtering the innocent, but he did not care if it led to clues regarding the mentors whereabouts. He removed his hood and spoke slowly in his broken tongue... "Mar...karth dan..gero...us pl..ace for me, but me... will go!"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Claren Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal Character Portrait: Demea Ravenwing Character Portrait: Aria Windfoot Character Portrait: Sinderion Direnni Character Portrait: Cassadin Hawke Character Portrait: Lok-Indra Character Portrait: Vanryth Galero Character Portrait: S'Baad
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S'Baad
The Mentor's Manor - Dining Hall


The world rocked for an instant, and S'Baad struggled to maintain his balance, both mentally and physically. The large feline stood furthest from the group, in his usual manner, but this had not excluded him from seeing or hearing the dreadful note and the strange words written on it. The Khajiit's whiskers twitched, and he resisted the urge to begin dry-washing his paws.

"This one wonders if it might not be a trap."

Certainly the idea was a little farfetched, but S'Baad was a thinker, and all the facts had to be considered in this situation. His mind was reeling from this blow, but if the Mentor had taught him one thing, it was to sort through the emotion and find the logic, the purpose. Purpose - the very word struck him a new blow.

"These ones do not know the handwriting," He began again, a thickly-accented rumble, "But these ones know it is not the Mentor's. This one thinks it best to explore this further before rash decisions are made."

S'Baad felt guilty once he finished; he knew the others were just as lost, and he was sure his attempt at voicing reason would be seen as cowardly. Still, he did not think it best to charge headlong into a situation they knew nothing about besides a location and a stranger they were to give a chance. The whole scenario was just too strange...

Still, the instructions supposedly came from the Mentor himself, and, as such, couldn't be ignored. And if he trusted the man they were to find, surely they could too.

Sighing softly, the Khajiit gave up his fight and began to dry-wash his paws, glancing about at each of his gathered companions, minus the recently-fled Demea, whom he hoped could retain that persona; the absence of her at this crucial moment would only serve to exacerbate an already tense situation.