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Lynly Snowsong

"I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul."

0 · 365 views · located in Tamriel: Skyrim

a character in “War For Skyrim”, originally authored by Talisman, as played by RolePlayGateway

Description

Image
BASIC
- Full Name: Lynly Snowsong

- Nickname(s): Lyn

- Age: 28

- Gender: Female

- Race: Nord

- Faction: ~

- Guild Member: ~

APPEARANCE

- Hair and Eyes: Lyn's eyes are steely gray and her hair is a platinum blond. Lyn's face is framed by two braids on either side of her face, and one braid in the back of her hair flowing down her neck. The rest of her hair falls loosely around her shoulders and out of the way of her face.

- Complexion: Her skin is pale in complexion, a snowy white befitting the name of Snowsong. Her skin is relatively unblemished aside from the odd scrape or scratch still healing. Most notably is a still healing wound on her right shoulder where a spike trap caught her. Aside from that, no telling scars blemishes the Snowsong's skin. A testament to her skill with a shield. She does have a tattoo on her left eye.

– Height and Weight: 6'0" - 175 lbs. A Nord, Lyn has the stature and muscle mass to prove it.

- Body Type: Strong and thick, a true daughter of Skyrim. Her body is tightly toned and banded to survive the harsh country of Skyrim. Her tall frame is filled in with muscle with little evidence of fat or wasted potential. She builds an imposing figure, yet still retains her femininity. Her arms and legs, while muscular, are also curvy and graceful. Her shoulders are by no means broad, and in fact seem to curve in on herself. Her trunk has a slight hourglass figure, but isn't apparent unless stripped of her armor and settled in everyday cloths. A powerful build, but with a hint of beauty and feminine curves

- Armor: Lyn's cuirass and gauntlets are of iron make with fur lining, as is her boots. Her leggings are made with normal tanned leather. Not only does her armor do a good job of trapping heat in the cold of Skyrim, but is also light enough to allow her freedom of movement and speed. Her shield is just engraved iron.

PERSONAL INFORMATION

- Weapon: She wields a normal iron longsword along with her shield. She uses both in tandem, using her shield to block blows and crush bones, and her sword to slash and impale. Neither have failed her yet, seeing how she is still alive.

- Mount: She has a horse, but more often than not it stays home at the Windhelm stables. She is a chestnut mare named Berry.

- Quote:
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

~ Invictus - William Ernest Henley

- Theme song: A journey in the North

- Brief History:
Lynly Snowsong was born to a pair of Nords, Sven and Rikke Snowsong. Sven was an adventurer when he was young, traveling all across the northern provinces. He told stories of visiting Blacklight, a Morrowind border city (Home of those "blasted ashen knife-ears" as she was told) and Bruma in the Northern reaches of Cyrodiil. Other stories included Hammerfell and High Rock as well, not to mention the numerous places in Skyrim. Because of his traveling lifestyle, he became a great warrior and fighter in his own right ("The meanest damn scrapper you'd ever meet" according to him) able to protect himself on his adventures or lend aid to a besieged town when needed. It was in one of these town Sven met his love Rikke. Nordic courtship commenced and soon they became the Snowsongs. Rikke managed to settle Sven down in Windhelm where they run a shop. Sven manages repairs on weapons, armor, and whatever else needs it, while Rikke sells the local produce.

Before long, the pitter patter of young Lynly's feet graced the Snowsong house. She was raised on her father's stories of his past adventures, which may have had impacted her choice of her current profession. She helped around the house, watching her father repair the odd guardsman sword or helped her mother gather the local plants. She began to take after her father, and asked him to teach her the blade once she was old enough. Her father was proud to pass on his legacy to his daughter and began to teach her the ways of the sword and shield- something all Nords should learn. She grew up strong and- much to her mother's dismay- restless. She had too much of her father in her.

One day when she was old enough, she set out from Windhelm and began her own adventures, something to tell her own children one day. She had since traveled vast expanses of Skyrim and visited many townships and city's- helping the people with their troubles for a spattering of gold, some food, and a warm place to sleep. The civil war began without her notice, though she always heard rumors and the rumblings of change. It wasn't until the last time she visited home that her parents told her the war was on.

She remains neutral, as she isn't a soldier, but an adventurer, she sympathizes with both sides and realizes both side's flaws. She wishes the conflict a swift end. Now that there's rumors of dragon sightings, the adventuring business became a lot more dangerous.

- Personality: Lyn is actually rather shy, and is readily apparent in her body language. Her shoulders are drawn in around others and in large crowds she is withdrawn. She can speak to others, sure, but she doesn't enjoy extended conversations with strangers. Her manner of speech is quiet and just above a whisper to strangers. Despite her shy nature, she is not easily frightened and never afraid. Her shyness stems from social awkwardness and not being able to find the words to speak than from any fear of people or such. She is a lone sort, being out and about the expanses from Skyrim tends to dull one's social senses.

She has Skyrim's blood running through her veins, and as such is brave and her nerves (when not in social interactions) are solid as a rock. She won't back away from a challenge, she won't give up, and a little fight won't discourage her. She is immovable and borderline stubborn when she has her mind set on something and she won't yield an inch. However, Lynly is also the peaceful sort, and unlike many Nords, finds no pleasure in senseless violence and death. She views fighting as a chore rather than a game and will often only opt to fight if she or another is in danger or there is no other option.

Despite all of this, she has her negative traits as well. She has a Nordic temper when pushed hard enough and she has a certain disdain for other races. Stemming from her upbringing, she has a bias against the "Knife-ears" as her father called them, especially the Dunmer and Altmer ("Ashen knife-ears" and "Pompous knife-ears" respectively) as well as the beast races. It's not unknown for her to tolerate an elf or a Kahjiit if they manage to prove themselves to her, but they have been few and far between.

History

Dovahkiin consideration please.

Oh, and MONKEY

So begins...

Lynly Snowsong's Story

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Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong
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Lynly Snowsong

The morning was truly beautiful. The wind wasn't as sharp as sharp as it usually was at this hour and the snowfall that usually assaulted Windhelm had died down for the moment. The citizens of Windhelm were beginning to start the day- opening shops and setting out their wares. One such denizen, a visitor, took this day to wander around her birthplace and take in the sights and bask in the nostalgia. There may have been more dark elves than she was used to, but they mostly kept to themselves, and she wasn't the one to start up conflict on a whim. Besides, it was too pretty a day in Skyrim to start needless conflicts. There was Candlehearth, the Palace of Kings, the market in the Stone Quarter. It was just like the home she left not too long ago.

However, there was a one large change, one that caught Lynly off guard. The civil war. She had always felt the tension and heard rumors, but she didn't really believe that war would actually break out. Yet here she was, right in the heart of Stormcloak territory. This was one of many reasons for Lynly's walk today. She needed to absorb the news. As Lynly stood in the middle of the bridge leading to Windhelm- the wind blowing through Lynly's platinum braids- she looked out beyond the vally and out across the land, her home. Skyrim was now divided in two, Stormcloak and Imperial. Despite being raised in Windhelm all of her life, she didn't see herself on the side of the Stormcloaks, nor did she see herself aligned with the Imperials. They both had their flaws, and joining one would no doubt lead to useless conflict.

Lynly shook her head and adjusted the dress she had on. It felt alien compared to the familiar weight of her armor and equipment. Hell, her father had teased her about it when she left the house. She was still a woman after all, and wearing a tunic and breeches that wouldn't be right. She had been in the city for a week now, visiting with her parents and home, and telling them the stories of her adventures. Her Sven- her father- was completely encapsulated by her stories of daring, braving ancient ruins and delving in forgotten caves. Rikke- her mother- worried herself sick over these stories, and chastised her for them. She knew Lynly had too much of her father in her to take any heed though. It was good to be home again, seeing the familiar sights and meeting familiar folk again. Even so, she still felt the pull of adventure, of jumping into the wilderness head first and just... Explore... Experience. She was beginning to get restless. It wasn't going to be long before she would set off on the road again.

She sighed, taking one last deep breath of air before turning back to the gates of Windhelm. She headed towards the Stone quarter- her father must have been out by now, forging weapons and armor for the Stormcloaks. One good thing about the war, it gave her father a lot of work. As she stepped into the open air market, she headed towards the familiar pounding of hammer upon iron, and before long found her father waving her over. As she approached, a hammer was shoved into her hands and he gestured at one of the swords that needed pounding out. "Help your old man out will you Snowflake? I've got a quota to fill," he said with a smile, looking away from his own sword he held to a grindstone. Lynly smiled and grasped the bent sword, "Sometimes I wonder how you manage without me father. I worry you know," She teased, and began pounding on the sword.

Sven laughed and replied, "Worried about me? I'm not the one living out on the road. A bear isn't going to attack me in here." And with that, small conversation began between father and daughter. Lynly told one of her stories, to which Sven replied with one from his own past- seemingly trying to one up her. It was strange, but endearing, and it made the work between the two of them pass all that faster. Before long, the sun had rose high in the sky and it was midday and Rikke had called the two of them in for lunch. It was during lunch that Lynly told her parents of her choice.

"I'm leaving today. Thinking about heading to Whiterun and check out where the 'Dovahkiin' allegedly killed a dragon," She said with obvious skeptism. Her mother winced, but her father simply nodded. He knew the feeling she had in her bones. "When?" Rikke asked. "I'm going to pack and equip soon. So... After that?" Rikke sighed, be relented, "I wish you would stay, but I can't stop you. By the gods, you're worse than your father was. Just atleast say good bye this time?" Lynly nodded, and lunch was finished in relative silence.

True to her word, Lynly donned her fur-lined armor and shouldered her shield and sword after lunch, packing the necessary provisions in her pack. She came out of her room with her parents ready to see her off. It wasn't anything big or long. A simple hug from both and wishes of good luck was all that was necessary. And with little fanfare, Lynly saddled up her horse- Berry- and left Windhelm once more- heading towards Whiterun this time. She wondered if She could still see the carcass of the dragon.

Heh, dragons, the Dovahkiin, and a civil war. Things were complicated now, and Lynly's curiosity thoroughly piqued. She found herself thinking about the Dovahkiin- Dragonborn. One born with the soul of a dragon.

How exciting.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Anirne
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Lynly Snowsong

The journey to Whiterun was relatively uneventful for Lynly. Just a couple of wild animals mistaking her and her horse for an easy meal. Animals whose pelts now sat comfortably in one of the many compartments in her saddle. They were nothing and would probably only fetch a couple of septims each, but money was money and one had to make do with what they were given. She had followed the river for the duration of the journey, passing the time on the road by watching the salmon fight their ways upstream against brutal currents. She found herself thinking about how strong the creatures must have been, to fight against the grain like. Idle thoughts, sure, but thoughts that made the day's journey pass all that quicker.

Lynly was a solitary creature, enjoying the quiet atmosphere that nature proved, as well as it's beauty and unpredictability. Skyrim was a hard land, that was clear as she passed a broken wagon that's long been scavenged and picked dry. But she had a certain... Feral beauty about her. Before long however, night descended upon the feral beauty with Lynly nowhere close to her destination. She opted to have Berry, the chestnut mare beneath her, spend another hour trotting the familiar road before pulling off to the side and calling it a night.

Such as the life of Lynly Snowsong. She had spent nearly half as many nights outside of cities and towns as in them and she couldn't say if she preferred it any other way. Further north, she'd usually have to find a cave or a ruin to keep the chill from winding into her bones, but the weather here was more hospital to the daughter of Skyrim than it was in the frozen northlands. As she unstrapped the bedroll from Berry's saddle, she couldn't help but look up at the clear skies and be reminded of Skyrim's beauty. She laid her bedroll down before tying Berry off to a tree and starting a small fire. Nothing big, just to keep the night's chill out. And just like that, Lynly fell asleep like she was still at home in her own bed.

The next day came early, and she was on the road again. She'd get to Whiterun today if no distractions presented themselves. The luck was in her favor as the rest of her trip was unimpeded. As she grew closer to Whiterun, merchants and caravans became a more common sight. She'd always managed a small wave to her fellow Nordic countrymen, and nodded at the other passing human races. While, not socially active and warm in the first place, she was notably cold to the other elven and beast races. Her eyes would avert from looking upon the Khajiit hawking their (probably stolen) wares and scoff at the passing elves. However, she never muttered a word to anyone aside from these greetings. Not many people manage to elicit a warm response from Lynly.

Soon, the towering building of Dragonsreach came into sight and soon still the town proper. She ignored the city for the moment, already eaten a breakfast of dried and salted rabbit. She only had one thing on her mind. The western watchtower. From what the rumors had told her, it was here that the mysterious Dovahkiin slew his first dragon and assumed the title Dragonborn. She began to wonder if she could have passed the Dovahkiin on the road. Could he have been one of the fellow Nords she had greeted. An Imperial? Redguard? Breton even? with such scant details, it was a curious mystery. Perhaps the corpse of the slain dragon would provide clues to this enigma.

The watchtower. Lynly looked upon the destruction, smoke still rising in the air and the ash just beginning to settle on the hard ground. Around, she could make out the charred corpses of the previous defenders of the tower. Her eyes widened in awe. If a dragon hadn't attacked this place, then what did? What could possibly cause this much destruction but a dragon? She felt a hint of sadness for the corpses, but they would be greeted in Sovngarde with open arms for standing against the might of a dragon.

She edged Berry around the smoke and ash and soon, there it lay. The dragon. Or what was left of it. She had approached the dragon from the tail and realized it was just bone and sinew left. There were no meat, no muscle, no skin... Just bones and the ligaments that kept the bones together. As she dismounted Berry, she approached the bones. What could do this? What could strip away the might of the dragon like this. The Dovahkiin? Strange... She had expected the dragon to be whole. She knelt and took off one of her gloves and felt a thick bone between her hands. It still had a faint warmth about it, and it was relatively heavy for a flying creature- it felt strong as well. Letting go of the bone, her hands drifted to the ground, to the left over traces of scales. She picked up one about the size of her hand and examined it.

“By the ancestors.”

Lynly was on her feet in moments, her hand instinctively grabbing the hilt of the sword at her back. She still held the scale in her hand too surprised to have dropped it, but looked ready to pounce at even the smallest provocation. Her eyes darted to where the noise came from and she was surprised to see an elf circling the dragon. An Altmer woman to be exact. Despite being a "high elf", and it was clear that the woman was by the golden hue in her hair and skin, the woman appeared to be a bit shorter than she was, despite the normal Altmer being either at her height or taller.

Lynly stood quietly examining the elf gauging whether she was a threat or not. Feeling that she was in no immediate danger, she allowed her hand to drop from the hilt of her sword. Her gaze flitted between the elf and the dragon before finally speaking. "Curious too?" She asked frankly and not too warmly. They both must have been too engrossed in the dragon in front of them to notice each other's presence before. At least, that was how it was for Lynly. She kept a suspicious eye on the elf for a moment before returning to dragonscale in her hand.

"The Dovahkiin," she stated curtly. "By Talos, I guess he is real," She let slip before her eyes darted back up to the elf. She knew how the Thalmor dealt with Talos worshipers. She also knew how many of the Thalmor were Altmers. What she didn't know was whether this woman was a Thalmor agent or not. She eyed the elf cautiously, waiting for a sign either way.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Varnan Bovkin Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Anirne
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Anirne
Western Watchtower


At her (perhaps ill-chosen) words, Anirne heard a reaction from the other side of the dragon and spared a glance. Female, Nord most likely. She was certainly tall enough, and Anirne was uncomfortably reminded of what her mother had always told her was her greatest imperfection. You’ll be lucky if anyone wants to marry a little thing like you. Of course, such foolish things as Altmer eugenics and marriage were hardly her concern anymore, and the ache of the reminder was quite dull these days.

Having perceived that the woman was not an immediate threat, she turned back to what she was doing. People who really wanted to kill you did not hesitate to draw sword or fling spell, and therefore it was unlikely that she would be attacked. If she was, well
 she was not as harmless as she appeared. Despite everything in her experience that urged her otherwise, she did try to give people the benefit of the doubt whenever possible. Life was just too difficult already to live it always distrusting every unknown intention.

“Curious too?” The woman’s voice, quiet, but strong and roughened as all human voices were to elven ears, sounded across the space between them, and Anirne paused in her inspection. Curious? Perhaps. That wasn’t the best word for it, but it was close enough.

She looked over at the woman again, lips tilting in a wry half-smile. “I suppose you could say that.” She ventured at last to touch the bones, not free of that general impression of malice even now. Perhaps it was something her magical sensibilities were telling her, perhaps not. It was always difficult to tell. Psijics were much more mystical than most mages, but sometimes it wasn’t a simple division between magical and mundane instincts, for she possessed both. It could just as easily be her elven blood that demanded wariness, or perhaps she was misinterpreting the uneasy atmosphere somehow. All speculations she’d have to write down and meditate upon at a later time.

“The Dovahkiin. By Talos, I guess he is real.” At this proclamation, the woman seemed to tense, glancing at Anirne furtively as though waiting for something. For her part, the Altmer let a small hint of her confusion show, and returned the look flatly for a few moments before everything clicked into place. Ah, of course. She shook her head slowly.

“I’ll fault nobody for venerating her ancestors,” she said simply, not inclined to have the ‘Talos Argument’ with anyone. It was a rather contested issue on the Isles, as representative of a larger pattern of shifting political strife. Of course, all anyone else ever saw was the blasted Thalmor, the incredibly traditionalist xenophobes among her people. It may well be true that Altmer culture represented the pinnacle of current civilization, but there was no way it was going to stay that way if they refused to accept change and outside influence. Change was sacred, and if anyone doubted that, all they had to do was look to the Empire. From one small human civilization to a reach that spanned nearly all of Tamriel, and a rich milieu of cultures for all that. People resisting change was nothing new, but it was rather counterproductive in most cases.

But right now, none of this was properly Anirne’s concern. She really was interested in the dead dragon. Growing up, she’d read many scholarly treatises on the subject, but of course most of them were mere speculation and fancy compared to the firsthand evidence she was examining right now. She should take notes, draw a scale model
 the chance to look at the skeletal structure alone was more than she’d dared hope for. All the texts said soul consumption bathed the corpse in golden light, incinerating it from within, and she hadn’t expected that the bones would be strong enough to resist that. It implied, and indeed she could observe, great density and mass-

A foreign sound greeted her ears, and it was with some surprise that she discovered a third person, this one male, was headed in their direction. Anirne ran a hand through the hair under her hood almost ruefully at the revelation. It seemed this was quite the popular site today. Not that she could blame anyone; it was absolutely fascinating.

The newcomer, like the woman before him, skipped the pleasantries, and Anirne couldn’t say she minded. There was something businesslike about this country that she found refreshing, almost as though time was too short to stand on ceremony all the time. Retrieving her travel log and a charcoal from one deep pocket of her robes, the Psijic set about taking notes, starting with a sketch of the skeleton. She was fairly accurate with these things, though her anatomically correct drawings usually lacked what most people referred to as “art.” As of yet, she hadn’t seen anything worth making into art, so this comment never bothered her. Right now, though, she wished she had just a little.

“What do you think? Did it primarily flap or glide?” The man- Breton, perhaps?- was asking her, and she considered her answer for a moment, not pausing in her sketching motions. Normally, she would have taken the time to study the other two people in the area more closely, but what they were saying was of much more import to her than how they looked while saying it, and her generally inquisitive tendencies could wait until much more significant matters were discussed.

“Works on the subject say they flew after the manner of birds, but then most of those scholars had never seen a dragon. I would hypothesize, based on wingspan and skeletal structure, that they mostly glide. There would be little in the way of warm updrafts in this region, I think, which probably necessitated the massive wingspan- great enough to generate lift with one or two strokes.” She did pause then, tilting her head to one side and examining the dragon carefully.

“I’d need to find a live one to be certain, however. I don’t suppose either of you have heard tell of such a creature recently?” The fact that she should perhaps be cautious of getting close enough to a live dragon to see how it flew didn’t really register with Anirne. She had been sent here to make some kind of contribution to the library, and she had decided it would be on dragons. That meant finding live dragons, and this was simply the way of it. Fear did not factor into the equation, one way or another.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Varnan Bovkin Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Anirne
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Lynly Snowsong

Relief filled Lynly when she realized that she was in no danger from this Altmer. Despite her slip of the tongue mentioning her Talos worship, the woman didn't appear to be phased, nor even care- going so far as to even dismiss the subject. Lynly managed to wind down a bit realizing this woman didn't even seem to care about her, and focused more on the pile of dragon bones in front of her. Still, Lynly felt uncomfortable, but that was due to the proximity of another- a stranger and an elf at that, and it came off through her body language. Her shoulders were drawn in and she was quiet- even when she spoke. Even with the storied bravery and valiance of Nords, there were a couple of shy ones as well.

As the woman went back to examining the dragon proper- always the studious ones, the Atlmer- Lynly focused on the scale in her hand. She tapped on it with her finger nail, proving her thoughts. The thing was thick and hard with a heaviness belying it's small size. It was also almost as hard as armor. She then began to try and bend it with both hands, testing it's pliability. The scale stubbornly only gave a little. She began to wonder... She wondered if her father could make anything from this. With an adequate amount, she wondered if a suit could be made from the scales, or hell, the bones. If not, then they would still be a great keepsake and a gift for her father. She grinned to herself imagining the man's surprise.

A voice caused her to drop the grin and hunt for the owner. Another had found his- for this time it was a Breton man- way to the site of the fight. Lynly felt herself saddened by the fact that she missed what had bound to be a spectacle and a great battle and an even better story that would top anything her father had told her.

The man rambled on about the dragons, taking on a scholarly air much like the Altmer did. Though, his words did lift Lynly's eyes to the sky. To think that such a large creature could even get off the ground, even with it's heavy scales and bones weighing it down, was an amazing thought. Also, a frightening one, to think that this thing was a hunter and another could swoop down at any minute and lay down a wave of destruction. At least this one was dead and had no danger of bathing them in a gout of flames.

Lynly approached the corpse as the Breton spoke, keeping her distance but approaching all the same. She laid a hand on the bones and felt them under her hands. The Breton was right, they were dense for a creature who was prone to the skies. The Breton then posed a question to the Altmer (who was now sketching the skeleton), asking whether she believed it flapped or glided. Since she wasn't asked, she kept her opinion to herself. It was difficult to say whether the creature flapped or glided seeing how it had been stripped clean. One would need to examine it's wings and it's musculature to tell for certain, but again, the Breton didn't ask her, he asked the Altmer. Lynly was happy to let her answer, seeing how she didn't like to talk. She did, however, state something, "I'm going to take some of these," She said, holding up the stray scale. She'd might even try to sneak a bone.

Her answer was sophisticated and intelligent, and Lynly found herself listening to the woman as she spoke, running her own hand down the spine of the skeleton. The last part of her speech however, made Lynly stop and turn to the Altmer with her eyebrow raised. "A live one?" She asked. That girl... She was brave to be willing to actively find one of these monsters, even if it was only to study. Something that made Lynly respect the girl, even if she was just an elf. Lynly's eyes hovered on the girl for a moment before shifting back to the skeleton. "I didn't see one on my travels here," she said. If it was a joke, then her dead-pan delivery didn't give it away.

"But, if you plan on tracking one down," She began, looking back to the elf, "I'd ask that you allow me to accompany you," she stated. It sounded like a grand adventure, to actually see a dragon in flight first hand. While the elf seemed to be in it for scholarly pursuits, Lynly was in it merely for the excitement and the experience. And seemed like a good enough experience that she'd be willing to travel with an elf to get it.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Drusus "Roggvar" Lexius Character Portrait: Varnan Bovkin Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Anirne
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Drusus day was an acceptable one; no safe houses hiding his brethren of Talos had been uncovered and he had no business arrangements for the East empire company today, only a business arrangement for his own benefit an possibly the benefit of many others should his research bare fruit.
For the past few days Drusus had taken leave from his work and dedicated himself to the knowledge he had gathered over the years especially lore concerning the long extinct dragons, the ancient Nords who served and worshiped them and the mysterious magic surrounding their existence. He had been able to uncover one important fact which was that his horde of knowledge was incomplete and near useless without additional scraps of information to fill in the gaps of his research. Speculation was indeed a great thing that separated men, mer and the beast foke from the animal kingdom however when dealing with a delicate matter such as the return of the dragons; one of the most destructive forces ever to grace Skyrim during one of the most desperate periods for the Empire in history demanded facts and not speculation. Drusus had given his knowledge to the few wizards who had an interest in Dragon law in the days when this subject was treated as a myth; those wizards and scholars owed him a favor and Drusus now decided it was the correct time to collect these favors starting with a certain wizard named Farengar.
Farengar the court Wizard to Jarl Balgruff like a number of other wizards used some of Drusus's translations of the dragon texts and other equally important knowledge for his own research and both maintained due to their close proximity to each other and their businesses in enchantment. Drusus liked to believe he had an acceptable relationship with the wizard or at least a mutually beneficial business and academic one.
The meeting took place in the Wizards study and had started well enough however at some point when they discussed the fire breathing abilities of the dragons one of them had mentioned the jaws of the creatures and somehow the discussion turned towards the teeth of the dragons and how the Nords may have been originally enslaved by the dragons as field dentists.
Drusus suspected that the two of them had far too much to drink but hoped that they could at least complete the matter with some sense.
"yes Farengar I agree with you that the dragons considering their diet was
 is consistent with that of a predator animal did not require humans to sustain it since there has always been a large number of mammoths in Skyrim and the dragons clearly possessed the intelligence to bread them instead of hunt them without thought like the average predator animal and drive them to extension. However to describe Nordic service to the dragons as dentists is quite ludicrous in my opinion, I would agree with your earlier statement that men may have repaired the armor of the dragons between battles and that the dragons may have simply found the worship of man consistent and pleasing with their overconfidence and bravado but not your clearly ale inspired recent assessments of the matter in question."

Farengar was angered by this comment however since they where both busy men, he made no great diplomatic incident of the matter and instead returned to the reasons they had made this meeting in the first place: an exchange of information.
Drusus parted company with the wizard with the information he wanted including but not limited to Farengar's most recent and perhaps most important discovery; the dragon stone detailing the burial sites of the dragons slain in the original dragon war.
In exchange Drusus traded a number of trinkets from his earlier expeditions into the Nordic tombs, for a paper copy of the dragon stone itself Drusus traded one of his few and highly valued dragon priest mask; he had only two others like it but the trade was well worth a detailed map which could lead him to many other treasures if he so wanted.
Drusus left Whiterun after his business was concluded however he then remembered the recent battle between the Dova which had attacked a watch tower of the whiterun guard and the newly discovered Dovakin which even when asked Farengar could not say a lot about the Dovakin other then his normal scorn at his lack of academic education.
Drusus decided to ride and investigate the skeleton, he had all the information and tools he needed for a detailed examination with him as he carried them with him constantly ever since the start of the dragon crisis after the destruction of Helgen.
As he rode towards the site he saw a few others already there which did not surprise him. Among them was what seemed to me a warrior, what seemed to be a wizard and an Altmer.
He nodded to the warrior and the wizard but to the Altmer he gave the customary bow of greeting; he indeed hated the Thalmor possibly even more then he hated the emperor but he knew better then to see all Altmer as Thalmor. Was his own grandfather not of mixed Altmer Breton heritage and thus he himself such?
"greetings to you all my friends, please excuse my lack of sociability; I am a busy man and I have many studies to do on the corps of this Dova
 oh excuse me I some times forget that term is not known by many I meant by that dragon."
He smiled; at least these people did not appear to be scavengers until the warrior began collecting the scales of the Dova. Drusus could not hide his look of horror at this action but instead applied a more sensible approach to the problem and said:
"Please do treat these scales with respect; until recently this was a proud creature blessed by the one himself and a master of the skies. "
Drusus then sat down near the skeleton and opened a number of stone held scrolls desighned to remain on the ground insted of fly in the air due to every sudden burst of wind and other artifacts and began to examine the skeleton.

As he began his study he said to nobody in particular "by Tiber and Martin Septim never would I have imagined that I would have the opportunity to study one of the Dova!"
He then sank deep into his study, the skeleton itself had a great deal of secrets to uncover but it was the remains of the dragon's magic that were the goal of his study.

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Characters Present

Character Portrait: Drusus "Roggvar" Lexius Character Portrait: Varnan Bovkin Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Anirne
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Varnan Bovkin



The Breton felt a tug on his lips when the Altmer woman gave her answer. It was refreshing for him to find a person outside of the college with an intellect to match or surpass his own, in no offence to the average resident of Skyrim of course. She continued to ponder aloud and eventually suggested the possibility of seeing a live specimen , not even flinching at the thought. Varnan was intrigued by audacity of the woman, not unlike his own during his journey to this very site.
Her words caught the attention of the Nord woman that Varnan could tell had that familiar look in her eye he had seen in many a traveler, aspirations of adventure and thrills that were all to plentiful in the north. She probably saw the dragon as a kind of challenge, a prize even, if she intended on having a “closer look” like the mage suspected she did. Then again, he was also likely over reading her, this wasn’t a troll, or a giant, or even a mammoth, but in fact the most prolific predator in existence that didn’t stand on two legs. It didn’t even need legs to kill its prey.

Another appeared on the scene, which to be honest didn’t surprise Varnan one bit, in fact the only surprise was that this place didn’t have a gathering of twenty or more people at this point. Varnan entertained the comical idea of this pile of bones becoming some kind of attraction for Whiterun, people coming for miles and paying admition to see the mounted skeleton in the hall of Dragonsreach. The newcomer was an older fellow, by the look of him scholarly and possibly a mage himself, might as well have been an older version of the junior male scholar amongst the small congregation, given the similar motives. One thing that did stand our about the man is that he seemed to have an Imperial air about him, his accent (or lack there of depending on who you ask) when he spoke seemed Cyrodillic, and Varnan found it likely that he was an immigrant to this province. How long ago was impossible to tell. Again, not unlike himself and the others the man quickly became engrossed at the mutual object of interest, and seemed to dismiss the others, at least for the moment.

Varnan took this moment to address the two women to state his opinion in their proposal, “You know, my better judgment says it’s a bad idea to even think of looking for an aggressive gigantic, flying, able-to-see-us-from-a-mile-away, fire-breathing predator with an intellect on par or even outclassing our own, but I’m kind of on this trip to learn something, not from a book. I’d stick around the bones, and I would probably learn plenty, but I doubt I’d learn any more than from it than a living legend. If you’re both intent on finding a dragon, then I’ll make that my intent as well.” Varnan gave a genuine smile, this was almost like one of those adventure stories in which people form a small band of intrepid personalities seeking riches and glory.

Except in this case it was going to less cliché, right?

However thinking on it Varnan frowned realizing the obvious, “Except, we have absolutely no idea where to start looking. That kind of made things suddenly depressing didn’t it?”

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Character Portrait: Drusus "Roggvar" Lexius Character Portrait: Varnan Bovkin Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Erik the Swift Character Portrait: Anirne
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Anirne
Western Watchtower


Anirne finished off her sketch as the Nord woman mentioned taking a few of the scales. Though it wasn’t really an answer, she nodded, as though confirming that it was a good idea. Samples might be helpful until (and in case) they found a live one, as knowing what such a creature was truly made of might help them get past those defenses if it should become truly necessary.

Did she believe herself to be capable of slaying a dragon? That was hard to say. This Dovahkiin had managed it, and though they were indeed capable of consuming the souls of such creatures, nothing in that lent their attacks greater strength. Granted, he’d had a team of guards, but
 she may be able to study the creature unnoticed anyway. If not, she would prepare as best she could and cross that bridge when she came to it.

To her surprise, the woman asked to come along, and Anirne’s head snapped up. She blinked a couple of times, slowly, reexamining the other female. Ah. She had the light of adventure in her eyes, as her master would have said. Anirne did not mind this, and indeed, it would help to have different people present should things turn for the slightly less fortunate. The woman seemed wary of her, but she had yet to say or do anything that indicated outright racism, which likely meant that even if she did harbor such feelings, she’d be able to work around them. That was good enough, and Anirne could blame nobody for being wary.

“You’re welcome if you wish to come,” she replied, with a small smile.

At this point, they were joined by another man, this one not choosing to forgo the formalities. When he bowed to her, she was reminded unpleasantly of her childhood, but she did not show it, returning the gesture with the traditional Imperial equivalent. It was a subtle joke on her part, though she wasn’t really expecting anyone to be amused by it. He soon settled down to his examination, however and she left him be. She doubted he wished to be bothered.

A small sound caught her attention then, but she dismissed it as nothing when the Breton man spoke again. His two septims pulled a light chuckle from her. “What, you mean you don’t have the burning desire to traipse about the countryside with no destination whatsoever, hoping a live dragon might ambush you? You lack ambition, clearly.” Her quirked eyebrow and dry tone tipped all present off to the humor in the comment, but he did have a valid point.

“Hm
 I passed through the Reach on my way here. Are either of you familiar with a place called Autumnwatch Tower? There was a rumor that some kind of old burial ground existed there. I would have stopped to examine it myself, but I was in something of a hurry to be here. Which reminds me, do both of you have horses of some kind?” She whistled sharply, and the sound summoned Soldin. “I think he can carry two, but three would be a bit much, especially with supplies and armor considered.”

Anirne turned back to her fellow dragon-seekers, raising a speculative eyebrow, but she was the outsider here, and they would certainly know more of Skyrim geography and transportation than she.

“Oh. Also.” She glanced between the two of them. “If we’re to travel together for any length of time, I’d like you to know that my name is Anirne.” She inclined her head, but did not inquire after their names. If they wished to give them, they would. If not, well, she would respect that. It just wasn’t particularly polite to continue calling them ‘Nord’ and ‘Breton’ in her head.



Erik the Swift
Whiterun, The Bannered Mare


Erik sat with his back against the cool stone of the wall, listening to a rather poor bard sing songs of how the Stormcloaks were all going to die bloody, dishonorable deaths. It was a little surreal, the experience, because he was quite certain if the bard knew who he was and who he worked for, he’d change his tune quite quickly.

But of course the essence of his craft was such that nobody did know. Even his pilfered Brotherhood armor had undergone extensive modification, and was no longer so recognizable for what it had once been. When you worked for a big organization that existed as an open secret, you could afford to wear a uniform. When you worked for yourself and relied upon secrecy, you could not.

Reaching into his pocket, Erik touched the black soul gem there as if to remind himself that it still existed. It was a strange thing, to be able to smell everyone, to hear the blood rushing through their veins in a way he would not have thought possible before. He only heard if he listened for it, so the call to feed was bearable if not entirely present. His vegetarian sensibilities were offended by how much the vampire part of him enjoyed it. This was rationalized as an extension of the natural joy of the hunt, something trained into him from the time he was a mere whelp, growing up among those he was not born to.

He looked into his tankard, but unfortunately his mead was gone, and all he saw was the sad irony of his situation. Bastard son of the High King ends up working for the man who slew him to overthrow his father’s wife. It sounded like some kind of cautionary tale, or a grand cosmic joke. Maybe Sheogarath’s doing. He had a hard time believing anyone but the maddest of the lot would think up something like that.

But moping was useless, and he was done with it. The hit last night had been completed, which meant that one more pro-Imperial politician was dead. Ulfric apparently still thought Jarl Balgruuf might join his cause, but Erik knew differently. With or without the man he’d just taken out of the picture, that one was almost certainly going to accept Imperial aid. Secretly, Erik himself was somewhat glad of this. He worked for Ulfric, but by no means did that entail wishing for his victory. Still, a contract was a contract, and he’d see his through as he always did.

Setting a few coins on the table, Erik pulled up his hood and ventured outside, deciding to wander Whiterun for a while. He was not very amenable to the sun anymore, but he did occasionally miss it. It was uncomfortable, but not impossible to bear, and so for now, he would bear it. Sleeping never came easily to him the day after an assignment, anyway.

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Character Portrait: Drusus "Roggvar" Lexius Character Portrait: Varnan Bovkin Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Anirne
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Lynly Snowsong

About this time, Lynly had quite the collection of dragonscales, perhaps about five in total under her arm. She had largely ignored the other man who had recently appeared, and scoffed at his request for her to "treat the scales with respect". The animal was dead and gone, completely stripped of it's skin, muscles, and innards by the Dovahkiin. What was left to respect? Bones? Only a monument of the legendary "end times" brought on by Alduin and a slim beacon of salvation presented by the Dovahkiin. Still, she wished to avoid conflict and kept the count of scavenged scales to five.

The other man, the one who had appeared after Lynly had met the Altmer also expressed his wish to join them on their little dragon expedition, though he seemed a bit more apprehensive about the idea than either her or the Altmer. Not that she blamed the fellow. Willingly going to hunt and chase down a legendary predator not seen in the world for years did strike her as a bit rash, but that was the way of her people. Strong, brave, and a little bit stubborn, jumping head first into action. This brought back memories of her father momentarily. He would jump at the chance to see a living dragon- much less fight one. Alas, Lynly was intrigued, not suicidal enough to willingly wish to attempt to fight one of the beasts. Though, the thought of fighting a dragon didn't seem all that unpleasant to the Nord. After all, the Dovahkiin was just one person, and he managed to slay a dragon. How bad could her chances be?

Her thoughts trailed back to her impromptu companions. If a dragon was to attack, then what could she expect from these people. The Altmer no doubt had some sort of grasp of magick. Despite her own lack of magickal prowess, Lynly knew better than to dismiss the inherent perks of a being skilled with the arcane arts. Even if that being was an elf. The man probably dealt in a similar school, as his lack of heavy armor and weaponry labeled him more of a scholar than a warrior. Still, despite his lone sword, Lynly felt she would be at the forefront of conflict if things got out of hand. Not that she minded of course.

Then the man expressed their lack of hard knowledge of the location of a dragon. They were large flying lizards, an apex predator. How hard could one be to find? Though she didn't dismiss the fact that the man had a point. Without a place to start, then they weren't going anywhere fast. Then the elf joked that the Breton lacked ambition, a joke that managed to draw a dry grin on Lynly's face. She wasn't the most humorous of people, but the thought of randomly scouring Skyrim for a dragon did manage to get a rise out of her. Then the elf spoke of a rumor of Autumnwatch tower in the Reach. Lynly mulled on the name for a moment before speaking, "You mean the towers south of Ivarstead? Aye, I've heard of it. Heard it was full of bandits though," But the bandits probably weren't a match for a dragon. It was a distinct possibility that the dragon merely flushed out the previous residents out to make it it's own home.

"Aye, I have my own horse," She said, stepping away from the skeleton and grabbing Berry's reins. The others were probably too intrigued in the bones themselves than to notice the chestnut mare waiting a distance away. She opened a compartment in her saddle bag and drop the scales she had collected into it before approaching the others again. "Her name's Berry," she stated, rubbing the creature's snout. "And I am Lynly Snowsong," She added, realizing that the elf- Anirne- had revealed her own name.

"Autumnwatch huh? Here's to not being eaten," stated in her usual dead-pan tone as she rubbed Berry's snout.

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Character Portrait: Varnan Bovkin Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Anirne
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Varnan Bovkin



Her comical comment helped to negate the doubtful disposition brought on by his own words, lightening Varnan’s face of the frown he wore, even earning a chuckle from him. “Clearly,” he added to her joke.

She mentioned the Autumnwatch Tower, suggesting that would be a prudent place to start on their new quest. The Altmer woman asked if they had horses of their own and promptly called for her steed, to which the smile that returned to Varnan’s face lessened, he wasn’t slow on foot but obviously he would only slow them down if there was only one horse among them.

To his relief, shortly after Anirne gave them her name, the Nord whom would introduce herself as Lynly, summoned her mount affectionately calling it Berry. On the off hand comment Lynly made about bandits occupying the area, the Breton wryly scoffed, “Bandits are like cockroaches, they’re everywhere, you’ll never get rid of them all, but usually easy enough to deal with.” On the matter of transportation however he said, “And sorry to say, but I don’t have a mount.”

Thinking on it he gave an amused smile and jested, “Maybe one the bandits will offer me one after seeing how tired and exhausted I am from walking.” The worst part about it is that was only half joking, his journey here alone had taxed his strength, and a trip to the Reach might tax him beyond his limits. He didn’t show it, but his body was running on half-full, having gotten little rest that night and practically willing himself to this location with very few reprieves.

Not bothering to relay this information to them he added, “Oh, and the name’s Varnan, Varnan Bovkin.”

Setting

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Character Portrait: Alessia Rian Character Portrait: Varnan Bovkin Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Erik the Swift Character Portrait: Cole Character Portrait: Anirne
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Anirne
Western Watchtower


"You mean the towers south of Ivarstead? Aye, I've heard of it. Heard it was full of bandits though," the woman replied in that Nordic accent that Anirne was still getting used to. She continued on to mention that she had her own horse, which was something of a relief to the Altmer. Make no mistake, she would have shared if necessary, but she did rather value her personal space.

“Bandits are like cockroaches, they’re everywhere, you’ll never get rid of them all, but usually easy enough to deal with.” That was a true enough sentiment, she supposed.

“At least a bandit’s intentions are obvious,” she mused, a slight trace of melancholy entering her tone. Such was not the case with more insidious enemies than highwaymen, and unfortunately it was these with whom she personally most often dealt. In a sense, the danger posed by running off in search of a dragon was a welcome change. There was something big, cunning, and probably extremely violent, but at least you didn’t have to debate about whether or not you could trust it or if it would choose to put poison in your goblet.

Shaking herself, she removed the unpleasant reminiscence from forefront of her mind and turned to address the problem at hand. Lynly- and that was quite the pretty name, she thought incidentally- was in possession of a horse just slightly smaller than Soldin, probably because it was a mare. With her extra height and heavy armor accounted for, the solution to Varnan’s problem was obvious.

“Well, I guess you’re with me, then. We’ll, ah
 liberate the best horse we can from any bandit who might attack us, but for now it shouldn’t be a problem.” She swung up lightly on Soldin and offered a hand. “Unless you mind?” She supposed it was possible, but if her guess was correct, practicality would win out over any vague personal misgivings one might have about riding with a new acquaintance.

Either way, they were on the road shortly after, and after a short stop in Whiterun for any necessary supplies and a few hours’ rest, they were on their way. It would be a few days' journey, if she was guessing distance correctly, and though Anirne was still much colder than she’d ever had cause to be in her life, she couldn’t help but feel warmer at the prospect of having something to do, to study. The very essence of her lifestyle was academia mixed freely with practicum, and the chance to apply any of it to such a new and interesting situation was more than she could have hoped for.

The country, though wild and freezing, really was something to look at. She felt rather undignified, looking wide-eyed at everything as she did, and perhaps occasionally pulling her book from her pockets to write some note or sketch and interesting landscape feature wasn’t helping, but she almost couldn’t help herself. She’d seen precious little of the world outside her birthplace, and she was beginning to understand just how small Summerset really was. There were no bracing mountain breezes, and sky, though lovely and blue as it was here, didn’t seem to stretch on forever in quite the same way.

It crossed her mind that a bit of polite conversation might not go awry, and she was not at all averse to it, but then she was also not sure for what the protocols for such a situation were here. Were they on Summerset, she would have probably known her fellow researchers already, if not in person than at least by their credentials and reputation, which would have given her something to start with. Additionally, involving both of her compatriots in the same conversation might not be simple, as she guessed they were from widely-divergent backgrounds.

They were both from Skyrim, but she was not. Perhaps an inquiry after information? She did not wish to sound as though she were simply quizzing them, however. Conversation was close to an art form as far as her people were concerned, and it was one that she was admittedly not as practiced with as she would like to be.

She was saved from having to consider it much further at present when they rode past what appeared to be a medium-sized campsite. Anirne was well-prepared to think nothing of it, but the arrow that narrowly missed her nose demanded more attention than she was currently allotting it. “Oh, well
 I suppose that counts as rather hostile, now doesn’t it?” she asked mildly to nobody in particular.

Her rhetorical question received wordless answer when approximately ten bandits stepped out in front of the two horses, effectively blocking the road. Fortunately, she’d made sure to purchase a horse who wasn’t spooked easily, including by the use of magic in his presence, and lightning flickered between her fingertips as the first man charged. She fired the spell off in a short burst. Fight first, ask questions later, I suppose



Erik the Swift
Whiterun


Erik prowled restlessly around the streets of Whiterun for a time, waiting until the Jarl’s doors at Dragonsreach would open to public inquiry. Granted, he could have simply snuck in and confronted the man in his private quarters, but Jarl Ulfric had been clear: the message was to be delivered publicly. Of course, as the messenger, he was to swear up and down that he held no Stormcloak allegiance, which was much closer to the truth than Ulfric realized.

Nevertheless, he was conscious that this message put him in some form of personal jeopardy, which was probably why he’d been sent to do it, rather than an ordinary soldier who might die or a more valuable officer who couldn’t afford to. Wetwork, indeed.

He passed people here and there on the street, including one fellow who was speaking to a woman about his wish to join the Imperial Army. He marked down the man’s face, and details of his gait and carriage, and the same for the woman, just in case, but in truth he wished them luck. He passed both casually without a hint of ill intent, for truly he had none.

His feet eventually carried him to Warmaiden’s, a smithy that he gathered to be run by a woman surnamed Avenicci. Related to Jarl Balgruuf’s Imperial advisor, if his dossier was correct.

“Can I get you something?” The woman was leaning up against one of the wooden beams that supported her house, mace at her hip, arms crossed. Despite this, she did not seem immediately unfriendly, and he plastered on a smile, lifting his knife from his belt slowly and still sheathed.

“It could use a sharpening,” he replied amicably, handing the weapon over handle-first, “But smithing is not a skill of mine.” His intent was for her to be amused by his sheepish comment, and indeed she seemed so, smiling crookedly and testing the point of the thing against her thumb.

“Hm. It’s well-made; I shouldn’t have a problem honing it for you. It’ll run you fifty septims, though.” She eyed him skeptically, as though not expecting him to have the coin. That look was one he was used to, and he tossed her a small pouch with exactly that much in it.

“I appreciate it. Say
 you wouldn’t happen to be the type who knows the local news, would you?” He’d asked the same question at the Bannered Mare, of course, and received a bounty and several interesting rumors for his trouble, but it always helped to diversify your sources.

“New, aren’t you?” she questioned with an aside glance, unbothered when he took up her former position as she moved to the stone grinder used to sharpen weapons. He merely replaced his smile in answer and she nodded. “Well, all most people are talking about these days is either the dragons or the war. Old Iron-fist is dead, and his daughter just got back to town to inherit, apparently. A lass named Brynja. Jarl Balgruuf still refuses to take sides, but word says he’ll probably deal with the Imperials eventually. Actually
” he knew the tones of a request when he heard them, and waited patiently for her question to present itself.

When he left, it was with both a sharpened knife and a greatsword to present to Proventus Avenicci in eventual hope that it would reach the Jarl. Interesting; this could present him with an advantage. If he got it to Avenicci before he delivered Ulfric’s message, the advisor might be less inclined to order his imprisonment.

It was always better when he didn’t have to kill people to keep a contract.

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Character Portrait: Varnan Bovkin Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Anirne
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Lynly Snowsong

Anirne and Varnan. The names of her two companions. She nodded in acknowledgement as each identified themselves. Lynly smiled at the joke about bandits giving Varnan a horse. Her dry sense of humor wanted her to say that he'd most likely get a blade to the gut or an arrow to the head before a horse, but decided rather than state her own grim words, to keep them locked away behind her teeth. Eager to be out on the road, Lynly hooked a foot in a saddle strap and hefted herself on Berry.

The first stop was obvious. Whiterun, so that they may replenish supplies and rest. Lynly restocked her provisions and rested before taking to the road once more, the next stop Autumnwatch tower. She followed close behind her new found companions, taking up a quiet rearguard. The lack of conversation on the road didn't bother Lynly, in fact, she welcomed the silent journey. Lynly was not the most socially adept person in Skyrim to any race, elf, man, or beast. The only people who Lynly allowed in close was her family. Her father and mother were the only ones who could reliably make Lynly speak what was on her mind at any given moment.

Despite beautiful landscape stretching all around them as far as the eye could see, Lynly couldn't help but glance back at the two in front of her. Th elf- Anirne rather and Varnan. Anirne had the look of a foriegn, and Lynly could catch evidence of some chill that assaulted the Altmer. Lynly only rolled her shoulders, feeling the comfortable warmth of the fur inside her iron armor. Another glance revealed the elf jotting something down or sketching something. She never wondered or asked herself why Anirne would be doing this, as she of all people knew of her homeland's beauty and majesty. Wild and untamed yes, but it had a certain feral beauty about it, like a proud snow wolf.

She patted Berry on the neck and drifted back into the wanderlust she always felt when she traveled the land. She felt herself drift off into daydream. She wondered if any of the other provinces were as beautiful as Skyrim. All she had to go on was her father's stories. Stories never did hold up to the real thing- it was even the reason for this trip, to see something that was only told in stories. She found herself wondering what the landscape of the Summerset Isles looked like. Did they have the golden hue her children had? A regal and cultured land? A glance back to Anirne, and Lynly thought maybe the land wasn't so bad... If it wasn't infested with elves.

A glance to Varnan had her wondering about High Rock. Despite his homeland being Skyrim, he made her think of the Bretons' homeland of High Rock. Was it like her people? A plain but intelligent place? Lynly shook her head, those were adventures for another day, today was about the adventure of Dragons.

Time passed in silence when Lynly felt that Anirne wished speak. Lynly patiently waited for her to speak her mind, but instead of words they were greeted with an arrow. Lynly drew the sword on her back and pulled up beside Anirne's horse with Berry's reins wrapped around her off hand. the woman glared at the ten bandits in front of her with an icy stare, trying to intimidate them. Then Lynly shrugged at Anirne's rhetorical question and said, "Take out the one who shot the arrow," She stated for either Varnan or Anirne to hear. She would hate to wade into battle on Berry just to be shot off by an archer.

With that bit of information passed along, Lynly kicked at Berry's flank, spurring the horse forward in a gallop. She crashed through the line of Bandits, swinging wildly with her sword, and once on the other side of the bandit line, quickly dismounted her steed and took up her shield. Now the bandits were trapped between two mages and a warrior. Lynly began to drum on her shield with her sword ringing out a challenge to those who dared approach. She then huddled behind her shield with her eyes peering over the edge and her sword drawn back in preparation for a quick thrust.

She found herself hoping that it wouldn't take long. It was too fine of a day to just to stain it with blood.

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Character Portrait: Varnan Bovkin Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Anirne
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Varnan Bovkin



For a fraction of a moment, Varnan stared at the hand before grasping it, affirming her offer. He noted it was something delicate to the touch, however she had more than enough strength to aid in giving the man enough leverage to mount Soldin. He was seated behind the woman, and at first was perplexed as to what position he should be seated in so that he wouldn’t have an embarrassing tumble. Many passengers would grasp the driver on a horse, usually by the waist, but that seemed
invasive, especially to a person he just met and whom he had little idea of what the reaction would be. Playing it safe he resided his hands upon the back of the saddle gaining a good enough grip. It felt awkward and largely uncomfortable for an extended period of time, but he tolerated it.

Before setting out on their journey they found it best to gain their bearings within Whiterun, to which Varnan took the opportunity to acquire a few more days worth of rations. Their business concluded they set out on the countryside bearing in a westerly direction.

Along the way Varnan noted that Anirne would occasionally make note of or sketch the landscape, as well as huddle to herself bracing against the chill. It had only occurred to him now that she was no native, most Atlmer he had seen may not be as resilient to Skyrim’s climate as a typical Nord but they certainly bared it well enough. This of course opened a myriad inquiries towards her, but he held his tongue for the moment, after all it was a long enough trek to their destination, there would be time to better understand his new companions.

The subject of her observations though led him to ponder it himself, the very land he called home. No one can state any falsehood about Skyrim having features that were awe inspiring. However it wasn’t simply the towering formations of stone that have stood against millennia of sharp winds only to be unnoticeably changed in defiance, nor was it the wide expanses that beckoned every creature to explore every crevice and nook it had to offer. No, it was the atmosphere itself.

Cyrodill had rolling hills densely populated by forests and rivers that ran into the epicenter of the Empire assuring its people of a safe and serine way of living. Morrowind certainly had appealing terrain and plant life that the Breton would find fascinating. But there was no comparison to his homeland.

It was the very contents of what filled his lungs, what made him aware of the organ that pulsated a kind of charge that was almost inexplicable through his veins. Stepping out into the cold may have been uncomfortable, but it always reminded one that they were alive. The land tested you at almost every turn, challenged your resolve at every chance it got, and if you were found wanting then you were cast aside, unfit to live in these lands. Everyday you had to push beyond your limits, defy the land as it besets you, to shout in defiance and declare your right to exist among the flora and fauna that make the same declaration.

The Nords know this better than anyone, especially considering their ancestors hail from Atmore. Even the night sky is sometimes filled with dynamic energy displayed as undulating waves of light. Every ebb and flow, everything from the skittering of mudcrabs to the thunderous steps of the proud and majestic four tusked beasts, everything living and non-living made the land itself practically breathe in unison, every part as if an organ of a greater body that only worked to make itself stronger in a never ending quest to attain godhood in its own right.

That was Skyrim.

That was Varnan’s home.

And now it’s tearing itself apart.

His eye caught a blurred object pass before Anirne, snapping the Breton from his introspection and activated his alerted senses. Interestingly, Anirne reacted in a rather composed manner to the attack, “Oh, well
 I suppose that counts as rather hostile, now doesn’t it?”

That was more a general statement rather then anything directed to her companions, all the same Varnan vocalised his thought, “Oh darn. And here I thought they were going to give us free sweetrolls and mead.” He promptly dismounted Soldin, just as his companion projected electricity at the nearest combatant, charging wildly and bellowing during every step, only to be silenced as the current completed its journey and the man dropped the two-handed axe he had over his head, and collapsed on the ground. Varnan couldn’t tell if he was dead or merely stunned, but at the moment all that mattered was that the odds were at least somewhat more even.

"Take out the one who shot the arrow," the Breton heard Lynly say before she boldly rode out to meet their opponents. To some this would seem like a typical foolhardy behaviour for a Nord, but they would be mistaken in thinking there was no semblance of strategy to the action. The warrior smashed through their defence which they apparently were completely unprepared for, disorienting the ambush somewhat and worked to divide their attentions. They may have been outnumbered but at least now they had the enemy outflanked.

The Breton did a quick survey of the motley crew. There were nine still standing in all, instead of one there were two archers, one bandit bore and axe and shield, another dual wielding a sword and mace, two going for the classic sword and shield combo, one with a hammer, and two with greatswords. From Varnan’s perspective the terrain sloped downward and he could feel a light breeze casting upon him from behind, giving him and his comrades two more allies in this fight, gravity and wind direction, against the accuracy of their arrows.

Varnan could see one of the archers knock an arrow with Lynly directly within his sight, true she was well armoured, but Varnan did not want to test her protection, nor was he about to pass up the opportunity to eliminate a distracted foe. Magicka literally ignited in his right hand and in less than an instant later the bolt of fire was launched. It hit its mark...more or less, it didn’t however connect where the mage intended. Instead of his torso the fire bolt landed at the bandit’s ankle, however though it did not kill him Varnan was rewarded by a howl of pain as the foe dropped to his knees to tend to his now burning limb, bow thrown aside and attention away from the Breton’s comrade.

Violet pulsating magicka now occupied his left palm, Varnan poured some of his reserves into it then expelled the energy. Five feet in front of him emerged out of swirling energies came a being from the depths of Oblivion, flame in element and feminine in form. The atronach turned to its master for direction, and he pointed to his warrior companion commanding, “Assist” the atronoch shifted its head to the direction he alluded to, turned back, wordlessly nodded and obliged his instruction, literally blazing a trail towards its quarry a flame already forming in its hand. The mage noted that at least a fourth of his magicka was gone now, and it would be a while before it was back to full strength .

Varnan began to approach the fray to increase his accuracy when before he could even fully register what was happening the Breton instinctively shifted to his side, his peripheral catching a narrow blur speeding towards him. He felt and heard a tap on his steel gauntlets and saw the deflected arrow bounce off to the side. Varnan looked out to the field and saw the remaining archer with eyes solely focused on him as the opponent reached into his quiver to knock another arrow. The mage could tell this one was a far more practiced marksman as he was able to compensate for the disadvantages of the field, in fact were it not for the steel gauntlet that inadvertently protected his torso Varnan would probably be bleeding out right now. He survived almost purely on dumb luck and the archer’s next shot would likely compensate for that as well.

The Breton began flanking to his right as to create a moving target, by now the opponent had knocked another arrow and was picking his moment to release it. Varnan did not wait and flung another bolt at the enemy, however it was horribly inaccurate, proved as the archer merely ducked for good measure as the flaming projectile passed harmlessly several feet over his head, Varnan’s haste and bobbing movement hindering his accuracy by too wide a margin. The bandit rose back up and took precise aim at his quarry, there would be little chance he would miss this time.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Alessia Rian Character Portrait: Varnan Bovkin Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Erik the Swift Character Portrait: Anirne
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Anirne
Bandit Camp


The smile tilted Anirne’s lips upwards even as the second bolt of lightning left her hands. Let it never be said that her companions were without sharpened wits; both were dry of humor and apparently just as likely to treat battle with diffidence as she. Well, perhaps Lynly was a bit more solemn about it, but then Anirne supposed she would be also if she had to go charging into the middle of it.

With a terse instruction, the Nord woman took off into the fray, shattering the unified line the bandits had put up and devolving the battle into chaos in short order. This was undeniably a positive for the three of them, who were easily outnumbered and out-armed by the bandits. Varnan was already on the archers as Lynly had instructed, so Anirne took the opportunity to even their odds a little bit. A quick Stoneflesh spell fortified her defenses, and she leaped lightly from Soldin’s back, drawing the attention of three of the more heavily-armed warrior types.

She was staring down a middle-aged Nord with a hammer, a younger man dual-wielding a sword and a mace, and a woman with a sword and shield, who had already taken some damage from her lightning bolts. The first reached her before the others, giving his steel weapon a mighty swing. Shifting her weight, Anirne stepped back with all due celerity, blasting him in the face with a chain lightning spell, which bounced from him to his compatriots behind him. It was enough to drop the already-injured woman to her knees, and Anirne did not hesitate, finishing the job in just enough time to duck under a swing from the mace.

The slope did not help her, and she lost her footing on loose terrain, stumbling. Her hands shot out to cushion the fall, sharp flakes of rock cutting into her gloved palms. The Altmer flinched, but there wasn’t time. The hammer was coming at her again, and she rolled to the side, narrowly missing a devastating and doubtless fatal blow to the head. If there had been any doubt that these bandits were serious, it was gone now.

She transitioned her roll into a smooth motion that carried her to her feet, summoning a bound sword to fend off the dual-wielder while she dealt with the largest of the three. Training took over, and she danced to one side of the next blow, more mindful of her surroundings this time. Moving in closer, she deposited a Flame Rune immediately behind him, then tucked and rolled to the side when it combusted as he regained his balance after another missed swing.

Glancing across the battlefield, she noted quickly that Lynly was being assisted by a Flame Atronach, no doubt Varnan’s doing, but the Breton himself was staring at the wrong end of an arrow. Her remaining magicka was limited, but she made a quick decision and drew upon it, casting Fear on the last archer and watching as he hesitated, body slowly taking on the tremor of the truly terrified. Hopefully that would buy her ally enough time to think of something-

Pain bloomed across Anirne’s back. Apparently, the dual-wielder had defeated her bound sword faster than she anticipated. Staggering forward, the Altmer drew her enchanted dagger, whirling to face him in enough time to block the incoming swing. The mace came in from the other side, and she managed to shift her body enough that it only caught her magical armor, causing the stoneflesh spell to waver, but hold.

She was out of magicka for the moment, but with enough time, it would come back. For now, she’d have to rely on the quickness of her feet and the acuity of her mind. Gritting her teeth, the Psijic monk heaved, throwing the man off-balance enough to allow her to retreat. The two circled each other warily, but Anirne’s back was still bleeding freely from a shallow, though broad, cut.


Erik the Swift
Whiterun, Dragonsreach


Erik slipped into the fortress quietly, but not with any particular application of stealth. He’d circled back around once he’d hit the edge of town and ascended the steps to the hold. His first task was to find Proventus Avenicci, not terribly difficult when one considered the low density of Imperials in the building. Most would have taken this to mean that the Jarl would support the Stormcloaks, but Erik knew differently. Avenicci himself was evidence of that. A loyalist to the end, and high enough up in the court to stand at the Jarl’s left. Only Balgruuf’s personal Housecarl, a dunmer woman named Irileth, had his ear more often.

Nevertheless, he was tasked to try, and so he would.

Avenicci hadn’t yet taken up his post for the day, though a glance down the hall confirmed that Irileth had. Instead, Erik was able to pull him aside and deliver the sword, pulling it from his back and speaking in low tones to the man, who handed him a coin purse for his trouble. Now, there was irony for you.

He next approached the throne, which was set on a dais at the end of a long room. This was fairy traditional, though Dragonsreach was conspicuously larger than the typical longhouse, a testament to the wealth trade had brought to the region.

“Jarl Balgruuf the Greater,” Erik greeted, bowing and ignoring the fact that Irileth’s sword was drawn.

“What brings a visitor to my halls so early, and without forewarning?” The Jarl inquired, though they both knew the war was the only answer to that question. Well, aside perhaps from dragons, but that was someone else’s provenance, not his.

“I carry a message from Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak.” Typically, he was supposed to include something like ‘true High King of Skyrim’ after this, but he did not, and all three of the people on the dais took note of that. Slowly, so as not to earn himself an attempted sword to the stomach, he removed the axe that hung at his hip. Everyone present knew what it meant, it seemed, except maybe Proventus. The Jarl beckoned him forward even as the doors behind them opened again. The scent that accompanied this was one half of the duo from earlier, and Erik found himself curious as to just who that woman might be.

Nevertheless, it wasn’t something he could find out at present, and so he remained facing forward as the Jarl took the axe into his hand, seeming to consider it. Nevertheless, Erik could read body language well enough to say that this was little more than a formality. He wasn’t going to go for it, and from the look in Irileth’s face, she knew it too. Fortunately, she also did not look inclined to order the household guards to attack him. Frankly, he was glad of that, for it meant he wouldn’t have to risk his life fighting his way out. Erik knew he was skilled, but no man was invulnerable, nor indeed any vampire...

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Character Portrait: Varnan Bovkin Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Anirne
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Lynly Snowsong

Her shield rocked back and a jolt of pain shot through her arm and hand. Lynly took another step back as the bandit wielding the greatsword pressed his advantage. While the warrior was grateful that she did not have to contend with the bandit who had a hammer, which would have easily broken her hand if she had blocked the blow as she did with the sword, she was careless and tried to block the attack by force. A tender hand was her just reward. She cautiously threw a glance to better gauge her situation. Varnan, as asked, was dealing with the two archers. Anirne had her hands full with three of the bandits, and that left the four remaining to her. There was the hulking greatsword in front of her, she noted as she blocked another heft- although this time she allowed the blade to hit the shield at an angle, letting the inertia guide the brunt of the force away from her center.

There was then two shield users, one with a sword and one with an axe and another bringing up the rear with another greatsword. Didn't she just have all the luck. The bandit in front of her raised his sword in order to continue his onslaught, but hesitated by a line of fire streaking through their ranks. Taking the moment of opportunity, Lynly reared back with her shield and swung it edge first into the side of the bandit with all of her strength. She thought she felt ribs cracking under the force of the blow. The bandit dropped his sword and fell to his needs favoring his sides. Now finally gaining momentum of her own, she stepped forward with her sword, putting her weight behind the stab. She didn't need to hear the blade cut flesh and leather to know that he was out of the fight.

Lynly withdrew her bloodied blade from it's sheath of flesh and looked for her new found fiery ally. A flame Atronach. One of the mages must have summoned it. Good thing too, as it was tying up two of the bandits- the greatsword wielder and a sword and shield wielder. That left-

She was set upon before she had time to figure out who that left her with. A battleaxe bit into her shield- the top heavy weapon jarring her hand. Another needle of pain shot through her hand. The greatsword must had did more damage than she anticipated, but she'd have to fight through the pain for now. As she gritted her teeth, she pushed back with her shield. The axe was replaced by a savage blow with a shield. The needle became a fiery jolt of pain as the blow connected causing Lynly to give up her advantage and pushed her back another couple of steps. Instead of trying to block the next incoming strikes with force as she normally would, her injured hand would force her to have to try and deflect the blows. She cursed herself, trying to block a greatsword like that was stupid and it might get her killed yet.

However, trying to work a defense around her hand would soon cease to be a problem, as another shield bash connected with her own shield and the lip of the axe caught the edge of her shield. The bash had already numbed her hand so the next course of action was simple. She simply let go of the shield, letting the axe wretch it from her arm. It was either that or having her arm snapped in half.

The move seemed to work in her favor however, as the bandit expected Lynly to stick with her stalwart defense- not just let go of the shield. The bandit was off balance now, and Lynly pressed her advantage. She feinted to the bandit's left- the side he wielded his shield. He went for it, swinging his axe at neck level looking to liberate Lynly's head from her shoulders. Though now shieldless, Lynly was afforded more maneuverability than she was with her shield. She dipped under the axe and shifted her momentum to the bandit's right, to his now exposed side. The target was wide and Lynly struck. Her sword bit deep into the man's side, skewering him. He was no longer a threat.

The warrior drew her injured hand in close to her in order to reduce the risk of injuring it further. She figured she must have either sprained it or fractured some of the smaller bones. She sincerely hoped one of the mages was skilled in the art of restoration. As she scanned the battlefield, she saw that Varnan was in the process of staring down an arrow. She dropped her sword and hefted the axe from the fallen bandit's hand and gave it a great heave, sending it twirling end over end at the motionless archer. If she wasn't drowning in adrenaline, she would have noticed the oddity of the bandit's frightened demeanor. Lynly didn't see if the axehead bit or if the handle pummeled the archer, as she was already turned towards the other two bandits. Lynly picked her sword up and strode to towards the aid of the Flame Atronach. It was time for her to repay the favor as she set her eyes on the last greatsword wielder.

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Character Portrait: Varnan Bovkin Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Anirne
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Varnan Bovkin




At first the Breton raised an eyebrow when the arrow meant for him was not released, and that the archer seemed both disoriented and terrified. Before he could ascertain the reason or take advantage of this, a whirling branch of wood and curved metal bit ferociously into his enemy’s unprotected sternum. A generous amount of crimson fluid flew into the air from the man, as no doubt be had already began to drown from the inside, collapsing into a heap, wide eyed and lifeless.

Varnan would inaudibly celebrate this small victory if the other archer, the one he believed to have already eliminated from the battlefield, hadn’t been seen crawling to his weapon, the fire on his ankle now out though the burns leaving him unable to stand. He would not need to though, for he reached his weapon and knocked an arrow aiming for his original target, seeming intent on finishing what he started. From what the mage could tell Lynly, now coming to the aid of his Atronach, however she no longer bore her shield, making that much easier a target. Varnan was now fed up with being frugal with his magicka which had served him little at this point, it was time to give it everything or his new companions would be made to sacrifice more than they should.

With no more qualms within him the mage focused both of his hands into pouring flaming magicka, a concentrated inferno now dwelling within them. He unleashed the fireball on the opponent, and fire erupted on contact, the small explosion leaving little doubt that either archers were dead. He checked upon his comrades, Lynly still approaching his minion, and Anirne
 at the sight of her struggle the mage bolted toward her direction.

Meanwhile, below the Atronach had been evading more than it was on the offensive. These two were more resilient than it had anticipated. Luckily one of them, a Dunmer woman bearing a sword and shield, made a poor tactic of swinging mightily with her blade in some attempt to cut down the thrall in one blow, perhaps frustrated with the evasive maneuvers. This left her open to which the Atronach took the opportunity to heave flames at the woman. When the bandit flinched the Atronach seized her, a heated palm grasping ashen elf’s skin by the face viscously searing it with fire, and the poor enemy wailed in agony now that her whole body was being consumed in unrelenting tongues that served to torture her with every lick. There would be no survival.

This action itself was however incredibly foolish on the Atronach’s part, for a wide blade sought retribution for the fallen comrade, jostling it from the burning corpse, and had the Atronach been flesh the blade would likely have bitten into what would have been its spine at the moment. But it would seem Obvlivion dwellers were more resilient to mortal weapons than most would give them credit for, being that the fire wielder was still among them. However it would not likely take another direct collision from the greatsword without fading out of Nirn entirely as it lay on the ground, struggling just to lift itself into a defensible position.

It could see the bandit approaching with a wide sneer strewn across his orcish face, apparently not taking too kindly to what the thrall had done, “That was my girl you bitch!” he barked hoarsely. But remaining so far undetected behind him, Lynly closed in. The orc raised his hefty weapon for a final heave, but the Atronach knew that even if it were to be sent back into Oblivion, it would not need to stay to know this bandit’s demise was at hand.

As he rushed to them the mage drew Fjolfr, hearing it sing a sizzling tune as it became exposed to the frigid Skyrim air. The two before him, one enemy, one companion, were staring each other down in an effort to anticipate the other’s action. Weather or not they anticipated him, was another matter, “Hey skeever-head!” he taunted.

And as predicted the bandit irresistibly lost his attentions toward Anirne in favor of finding the source of the taunt. His reward was a stream of electricity surging through him, leaving him partially stunned. With more courage than he should have been allowed, Varnan believed the man incapable of fighting any longer, and instead of using more magicka, now approaching to only a fourth of its maximum, he opted to finishing him with Fjolfr. The mage was of course surprised when the opponent managed to swing his
mace directly impacting Varnan as there was an audible snap emanating from his ribs.

His first instinct was to clutch his left side as he let loose a great howl which seemed to give his opponent some satisfaction as an evil smile crept upon his visage. The bandit approached for the kill, adrenaline was now pumping faster than ever in Varnan’s veins as he looked upon his opponent with distain and defiance. Not today, and not by you, he thought.

From his left hand once clutching his injury spewed flames, simple but wild, and though it was a novice level destruction spell it served to both burn and blind the man with its fiery tongues. Not giving him any time to react the mage closed the distance and saw Fjolfr sail through the opponents flesh in a precise impalement despite the encumbering injury, which could be attributed to the adrenalin blocking out enough of the pain for such an allowance. The opponent now burning on the outside and inside there was a sharp shrill cry for a brief moment that quickly withered into a pathetic whimper, but Varnan remained unsympathetic.

The blade was removed from the opponent’s gullet as a new heap collapsed on the ground. Shortly after the mage himself dropped to his knees once again clutching his fresh ailment, and relented in a vain attempt at wry humor, “Alright, not cockroaches, maybe wolves are a better analogy,” he spoke in a hoarse voice to no one in particular.

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Character Portrait: Alessia Rian Character Portrait: Varnan Bovkin Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Erik the Swift Character Portrait: Anirne
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Anirne
Bandit Camp


The bandit across from her was presently chuckling to himself, an unpleasant sound that sent slithering tendrils up Anirne’s spine. This, in turn, made her rather angry, as she did not like feeling apprehension, especially not for such a small matter.

Well, perhaps that was relative. Her masters would perhaps have been able to handle this affair without breaking a sweat, but talented as she was, she was nothing next to them, and yet inexperienced. She couldn’t be more glad for her allies in this mad rush at the moment, though she certainly would not have wished this upon them if it had been her choice. Funny, that she was willing to risk a dragon but couldn’t stand the thought of dealing with more bandits.

Maybe it was the way this one was looking at her. Like she was some kind of abomination, an insult to all mankind. Or maybe it was just what he was saying. “What’s wrong, little girl? All out of your fancy Thalmor magic, are you?” She gritted her teeth and scowled at him. She would not give this man the victory of knowing he’d gotten to her. Really, it was her fault for having such an obvious trigger. So instead, she smiled mirthlessly and spun the dagger in her hand, not minding much if he heard the resultant crackle of electricity.

“Not quite out of magic yet, though the delivery must be a little more
 direct.”

The bandit, apparently already tired of talking, charged her, and Anirne rose to the balls of her feet, knowing that her survival would be dependent on her maneuverability. This man had strength, stamina, and probably experience on her, so that she was obviously more mobile and just a little faster was precious little comfort. Still, she’d deal with it.

His first strike met her blade, but she knew she couldn’t leave it at a contest of muscle, for she’d surely lose. So she adjusted her body’s position even as he took advantage of her relative lack of mobility and went in with the mace, aiming for her hip. Anirne responded by ducking under the junction of their blades and skittering away, but the motion pulled uncomfortably at the wound on her back, and she flinched.

Perhaps he would have taken advantage of her momentary lapse, but lucky for her, he was easily manipulable and more than a little stupid, so when a taunt came his way from across the field, he responded without thinking twice. Breathing a sigh of relief, Anirne turned to survey the damage.

Varnan was dealing with her tormentor, and it looked like Lynly had the last one well-in-hand, judging from the fact that she had not yet even been detected by the greatsword-wielding orc. Nodding to herself, Anirne began going through the bodies, looking for something quite specific. She pocketed a few coins, but it wasn’t until she hit the charred remains of the archers that she stumbled upon what she was looking for. With a grim smile, she lifted the glass vials and unstoppered one, downing it immediately and reveling in the pinprick tingling that accompanied rapid and sudden magicka regeneration. Ignoring her wound for the moment, she threaded her way over to Varnan first, handing him the other magicka potion wordlessly and crouching beside him.

“Perhaps wolves is better,” she agreed. “I’ve never known cockroaches to bite.” She noted that his injuries seemed to be largely focused on his ribcage, but that was not a problem. “I realize you might be able to do this on your own, but please allow me.” With her magicka newly-restored, it wouldn’t be a problem, given that her expertise in restoration meant the costs for such spells were minimal.

Without really waiting for a proper response (she was a tad too much the healer to allow patients to protest overmuch), she took a deep breath and called upon her healing hands spell, allowing the pale-gold light to flow freely from herself to her compatriot until such time as her senses informed her that he was fully healed. Stepping back, she offered him a hand up and then looked around, searching for Lynly.

By this time, the woman had successfully dispatched her last opponent, though Anirne noticed she was favoring her wrist and missing her shield. Those two things were probably connected, but she did not know enough about Lynly’s preferred form of combat to tell for sure. “Do you mind?” she asked, gently taking the woman’s elbow and examining the injury. Fracture, probably, but she wasn’t going to waste time poking it and causing pain when she could just fix it and be done. The same spell was repeated until Lynly was fine as well, and then Anirne turned her attention to herself, doublecasting her most basic spell until the wound had closed up. The sensation was warm and pleasant, then cooled off as it completed.

Rolling her shoulders, the Altmer looked at the others, and then around. “Well, should we see what these people have? I admit, robbing the dead hardly seems kind, but I suppose they aren’t going to need it anymore. I think there were a couple of horses tethered that way.” She pointed towards the camp proper, though she really only remembered blurring past it on Soldin and seeing maybe the flick of a tail or something.


Erik the Swift
Whiterun, Dragonsreach


The Jarl on his throne appeared to be deep in thought, but it wasn’t too much longer before his eyes wandered back to the messenger. His brow furrowed, and Erik knew exactly what he was seeing. Soften out a few of the squared angles of his face, tint his complexion a little darker, and add about twenty pounds of muscle, and he’d be nearly identical to a young Torygg. Fortunately, not many people knew what a young Torygg looked like anymore, but Balgruuf obviously did.

He said nothing, merely staring flatly back, and his utter lack of reaction had the opposite effect from the one it usually did. “I swear you look familiar, young man. From which family are you?”

“None one such as your excellency would know,” he demurred politely, resisting the urge to lie with the truth and mention that his family all went by one name and had fur.

The Jarl frowned, but appeared to accept this as truth, shaking his head to himself. He glanced back down at the axe, then took a deep breath as if to steady the words that would follow. “I’m afraid I cannot accept this. Return it to Jarl Ulfric, if you would.” It was phrased as a request, but Erik knew a command when he heard one. Rather than hand it directly back to him, Balgruuf gave it to his Housecarl, and Irileth to Erik, who accepted it with a nod. As if that would stop me from attacking you had I been ordered to. Perhaps the Jarl was still expecting the same fanaticism that characterized the majority of the Stormcloaks, perhaps he was just paranoid.

Either way, Erik did not show any reaction as he received the axe, merely sliding it back into the leather loop at his belt wordlessly. “Of course, Jarl Balgruuf. I’ll see that he receives it in
 due time. I think, however, that I am rather tired from my journey here, and may yet dine at the Bannered Mare before I leave.”

The message in this statement was twofold: first, he was simply stating an intention, but he was the furthest thing from tired and showed no signs of fatigue whatsoever. The second was more interesting; Erik had implied that he would take his sweet time getting back to Windhelm, perhaps telling Ulfric that Balgruuf had deliberated long or that he had been delayed. Either way, he was going to be giving the Jarl more time to prepare for the incoming invasion. Erik bowed shallowly and departed, fully intending to resume his spot against the wall at the tavern.

Passing by the woman from earlier on his way out, he nodded politely, but did not pause in his steps.

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Character Portrait: Varnan Bovkin Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Anirne
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Lynly Snowsong

By the time Lynly arrived, the atronach had dealt with one bandit, while it was at the mercy of the other. Luckily, the bandit was too preoccupied with his prey to notice the irritated nordic woman approaching from behind. The orc lifted his greatsword up to hew the atronach in twain and taunted it. Lynly pushed her arm through his up-raised arms and hooked around his neck- careful not to brush her hand against her jaw. She then wrenched back, choking the orc before whispering into his ear. For someone who disdained battle and war cries, she could be intimidating when need arose.

"Should've picked easier targets," she spoke before slipping her longsword into his back and twisting. The orc convusled for a bit before falling limp, and Lynly allowed the orc to slink quietly into the ground. She gave her longsword a shake- throwing crimson in a sharp line before her, and scanned the battlefield one last time. It seemed she had dispatched the last bandit, though her and her companions didn't seem to emerge without their share of wounds. Lynly placed the blade between her arm and side and pulled, allowing the fur to wipe off the blade. Normally, she'd wipe it down with a cloth but seeing how her hand was useless to her at the moment, the improvisation would have to do. She wasn't about to muck up her sheath with blood.

She meandered the battlefield holding her hand close to her chest. She was too much a Nordic warrior to protest the pain or let it slow her down. She went on to kick the bodies to make sure that it wasn't some sort of feint and rifled their belongings with her good hand. Lynly had no qualms about grave robbing these men and women, they had brought it upon themselves. How many people have they ambushed and done the same? How many more would have succumbed had they not had the misfortune to meet them? She managed to filch a couple of gold and some flawed jewels, but not much else.

She overheard Anirne's and Varnan's conversation about wolves and cockroaches before adding her own view. "At least wolves have a pelt to sell," she added, showing them a flawed jewel. It wouldn't fetch much, but still. She broke off from her companions once more and approached the burned archers. She grunted as she stood over them, and let loose a dry quip, "hmm... Crispy," she said before being abducted by Anirne. At the elf's insistance, Lynly took her gauntlet off with her teeth; wincing all the while. Once free, she gave her arm to the elf. She was probably a much better healer than she was after all.

As expected, the hand was better within moments. Lynly gave a curt nod and replaced the gauntlet before kneeling over the burned archer. She took what was left of the quiver and picked up the bow and examined it. "Damn," she cursed, the staff was broken in half and the strings were frayed. She threw the useless piece of wood down and went to the other archer. She took the arrows out of his quiver and came upon her prize. A hunter's bow. Lynly grinned at her find and threw it over her shoulders.

"Already found what I needed," she replied to Anirne, indicating the bow on her back, "Need a way to get to the dragon if it sees us," she explained. While she hoped that it wouldn't see them, she didn't always get her way. It'd be foolish to go unprepared. She found her shield again (under the body of the slain bandit) and fetched Berry, bringing her back to her companions.

"Think they were cooking?" she asked. A bit of warm food sounded divine right then.

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Character Portrait: Varnan Bovkin Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Anirne
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Varnan Bovkin



He was haggard for the moment, paying little attention to his surroundings, simply making heaved breathes in an effort for the recent depletion of oxygen in his blood. Of course the pulsating pain in his side now becoming all the more apparent as the adrenaline declined, obviously prevented him from any actual relaxation, despite their skirmish being over now. Varnan heard Anirne add to his off-handed comment as she inspect his injury, and handed him a familiar potion. She didn’t bother asking permission to do so, but considering the benefits Varnan did not protest as she poured medicinal magicka on him, even if was fully capable of doing so himself.

Soothing waves cascaded his body as he could feel flesh and bone mesh back together into their respective placed, and soon it was as if nothing had happened to his body at all. He did however make a mental note not to underestimate an opponent like that again, or he would only become a liability. When finished with the mage Anirne tended to their warrior, thankfully in no more serious condition than he was.

Gulping down the entire concoction in one swig, the Breton felt the majority of his reserves filling back up, well on their way to the maximum. Once again voicing his thoughts aloud, “I suppose our first encounter together was a little rough, but altogether I’d say we chose each other well for this little outing. How many times do you think we saved each other’s lives back there? I’d hate to keep score.”

He seemed to go unanswered, but minded that little, as they needed no reply and were simply a moment of extroversion. “Think they were cooking?” Lynly asked with a hopeful tinge in her voice. As for himself the mage already had rations which he could share, but nothing could beat a freshly made meal, something that he could definitely hold on to hope was nearby.

Not bothering to rummage through the bodies, Varnan began a survey of the area for signs of the bandit’s encampment, being that it was an ambush it had to be pretty close, and considering the size there had to be a considerable amount sustenance to feed them all. Sure enough Varnan spotted a large cast iron pot hoisted over a fire, as well as racks of recently cooked game. “I hope you’re hungry!” he shouted in an amused tone.

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Characters Present

Character Portrait: Alessia Rian Character Portrait: Varnan Bovkin Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Erik the Swift Character Portrait: Anirne
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Anirne
Bandit Camp


Anirne didn’t make any particular effort to answer either of her companion’s next comments, but this was not out of a desire to be rude. Rather, she went to retrieve he horses and lead them to the camp, as that seemed to be the plan for a moment. She’d admit, a hot meal sounded nice; they’d been living on road-rations for a while, and she missed freshly-cooked food.

Clucking her tongue, she coaxed Berry and Soldin to the encampment, though left them loose. These Skyrim horses seemed intelligent enough to stick by their riders, and tying them seemed silly in light of that.

The smell his her nose before the sight of the meal, and her stomach responded, much to her mortification. “Looks good,” she said simply, stepping gingerly into the camp proper and looking for vessels in which to eat. She found a few, and cracked and slightly grimy though they might be, they’d do with a little bit of ingenuity.

Taking up a few handfuls of snow, Anirne washed the bowls and plates as best she could, stacking them neatly on a tree stump near the cookpot when she was done. “Makes you winder why they bothered to attack, when they could have been eating instead,” she mused, smiling broadly at her cohorts. This was a nice change from the monotony of riding all day, even if it had come about by means most unfortunate.

Settling onto a log by the merrily-crackling fire, she reached back and grabbed another handful of snow, using it to wash herself of bandit-blood as well as she could. The icy substance sliding over the bare skin of her hands and face was not the most welcome sensation, but it was leagues better than letting ichor crust there. Being a mage was usually sufficient to avoid the worst of the battle-grime, but she’d wound up in closer quarters than she usually found prudent on several occasions today.

After her fingers had regained their heat from a few moments held out to the fire, she cleaned her knife as she waited for the stew to finish, sliding a whetstone along the length of the blade. The raspy sound that this produced was unique, but rather soft, and she decided that this might be the perfect time to start a conversation. Though she had felt some barrier to conversation earlier, there was something about facing down death with another person that tended to remove much of that reticence. Perhaps it was just her.

“The Old Tongue has a phrase for this sort of situation,” she started, lifting her gaze from her work. “Ke’lah hassir ah vectoris. Fortune favors the daring. I suppose three people odd enough to go looking for a dragon qualify, don’t you?” The tongue to which she referred was Aldmeris, something the Psijics tried very hard to preserve and reconstruct where possible. That particular phrase had always been one of her favorites, as it seemed to indicate that “fortune” was as much a matter of personal initiative as anything else, and not something you sat around and waited for. It suited her own inclinations.


Erik the Swift
Whiterun


He was aware of her presence before she chose to approach, and though he did nothing about it, he was puzzled. She had been in Dragonsreach, and it had seemed logical that she was there to speak to the Jarl. He knew for a fact she wasn’t one of Ulfric’s lackeys; he would have remembered the presence of an Imperial.

For a while, they simply walked, and Erik did not mind it. It simply took some people longer to speak than others. This was a very well-known fact among Khajit, and sometimes, when something particularly insightful had been brought to someone’s attention, they would ruminate upon it for some time and resume the conversation days, perhaps even weeks later. He used the opportunity to both study the woman (though for the most part with his ears and nose, not his eyes) and decide how long he would safely be able to delay before meandering his way back to Ulfric with the news that he’d been expecting anyway.

He could probably stretch his stay for another day, more if he could concoct some sufficiently “urgent” business to occupy him in the meantime, but it would have to be pretty momentous to take priority over this delivery.

The young woman’s voice broke into his train of thought, and he glanced at her skeptically out of the corner of his eye. He could handle this one of two ways: charming deflection or blunt honesty. Somehow, he doubted her story, but that was just years of growing up among the world’s most accomplished liars and tale-spinners. A wry smile twisted his mouth, and he decided it didn’t matter; his answer was the same regardless of who the fair lass was.

“I serve Ulfric Stormcloak because I am bound by contract, not because I believe in him or his cause. That said, I think he’s going to come away victorious, and the purely practical thing to do is to stay out of his way. I would prefer it not be so, but there are some people who simply cannot be denied. Serving him is not a choice, it is an obligation, and about as pleasant as you would expect that to be.” He shrugged casually, his demeanor entirely unruffled as he described the ‘future High King of Skyrim’ in a less-than-flattering light. If she was really a loyalist, she’d take offense, and he’d be interested to see how that went for her. If not, well, then he was right and there probably wouldn’t be an issue.