Hey you. You're finally awake.
Fire On The Mountain (A Skyrim Quest)
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Wake Up
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Wake Up (Character Creation Part 1)
"Hey, you. You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there." A pause, and bitter words carefully stated. "Same as all of us."
It is cold, more bitter than the harshest words imaginable. The sound of dozens of horses stamping and clopping over hard ground filled the air, and the horses stank as horses always do. It is a cold day in what had to be Skyrim. They aren't the only person in the cart, though there are only four people. The half-dozen carts behind are packed to the gills, over a dozen people in each of them, sometimes far more, bodies all but piled up. Men and mer, Khajiit and a lone Dunmer, and quite a few Nords as well, forming a line, a procession of carts led in front by what looked like Imperial soldiers, mostly bretons.
Their mouth tastes of dirt and mud, and the dregs of a hard, bad sleep.
The man across from them is a flaxen-haired Nord, strongly built and with a strong Skyrim accent.
"Damn you Stormcloaks, Skyrim was fine until you came along," the so-called thief says, "Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been coming east from the frontier, I could have stolen that horse and gotten away clean." He spat on the ground at the feet of the fourth prisoner, dark-haired, vaguely handsome, bound and gagged both. "You and me, we shouldn't be here, it's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants." His breath smells faintly of alcohol: liquid courage. He also stinks like he got it all over him.
"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief," the ungagged Stormcloak declared.
"Shut up back there!"
This is bad. Very bad.
Who... Are You?
Gender
[] Male.
[] Female.
[] Quit asking.
Race
[] Nord: Nords are the most prominent group in Skyrim. The Nords are currently in the middle of a divisive civil war. Hardy people, they are often seen as being warlike.
--+5 to Light Armor, +5 to Speech, +5 to Smithing, +5 to Survival
--Can stand the cold better than most.
--Being the majority race in Skyrim has its own advantages.
--Has some passing knowledge of Nordic, but by default only knows Tamrielic.
[] Imperial: Imperials are the people of the core of the Empire. They tend to be better educated and relatively more prosperous than those on the periphery, but also greatly distrusted for this and other reasons.
--+5 to Heavy Armor, +5 to Speech, +5 to Block, +5 to Alchemy
--Better educated about some aspects of history and politics, albeit with some definite biases.
--The Imperials you meet might assume well of you.
[] Breton: Bretons are the people of High Rock, most loyal province of men in the empire. They have some affinity to magic, though some claim they are more mer than man.
--+5 Illusion, +5 Alchemy, +5 Conjuration, +5 Restoration
--Begin the game with the spell "Conjure Familiar."
--Somewhat more resistant to the harm done by magic.
--Tarred with the Forsworn brush in the eyes of some.
[] Redguard: The people of Hammerfell, their darker skin and relatively recent secession from the Empire after the losses of Valenwood and Elswyr have caused some distrust. They too have a somewhat warlike reputation.
--+5 Light Armor, +5 Archery, +5 One-Handed, +5 Survival
--Strong resistance against poison due to a strong constitution.
--Used to hot, dry environments and surviving in the rough. Skyrim is miserably cold, but some of the lessons might have value, right?
[] Argonian: The people of the Black Marsh, they are distrusted and discriminated against by some in Skyrim. They are sometimes associated with criminality.
--+5 Light Armor, +5 Sneak, +5 Pickpocket, +5 Restoration
--Can breathe underwater.
--Incredibly healthy, hard to sicken.
[] Khajiit: The people of occupied Elsweyr, which is currently allied with the Aldmeri Union. They are quick on their feet and deadly in unarmed combat, though also stereotyped among Imperials as thieves, skooma addicts and worse.
--+5 One-Handed, +5 Pickpocket, +5 Sneak, +5 Archery
--They can see in the dark.
--They have rather wicked claws.
[] Dunmer: The dark-elves as they are called are an outcast people with a long and complicated history. Many because of this don't get along with Argonians. They're discriminated against in Skyrim. Their traditional home is in Morrowind.
--+5 Destruction, +5 Illusion, +5 Light Armor, +5 Sneak
--They are rather resistant to fire.
--They begin with the spell 'Sparks.'
[] Altmer: The elves of the Summerset isles, they are not much welcome in Imperial territories since the war several decades past. They are famous for their magical prowess, though it is to a degree overstated. But some of the best mages in world history have been Altmer.
--+5 Enchanting, +5 Restoration, +5 Illusion, +5 Conjuration
--They are somewhat stronger magically.
--They begin with the spell 'Fury.'
--Large numbers of Nords and even non-Nords will hate you on sight.
[] Bosmer: The 'Wood elves' of Valenwood, they are part of the Aldmeri Union, whether reluctantly or not depends on the Bosmer. Known for their connection to the wilderness and their magical power, refugees from the Bosmer are a common sight in many Imperial cities.
--+5 Survival, +5 Alchemy, +5 Archery, +5 Restoration
--Bosmer are somewhat resistant against both disease and poison, though not to the extremes of either the Argonians or Redguards.
--They begin with the spell 'Command Animal.'
[] Orsimer: The orcs are a people of diaspora, known for both their smithing and their warlike posture, but always outcasts whenever they go outside their strongholds, dotted around the wild places of the world. This has created a proud, insular, but rich culture that has survived everything thrown at it.
--+5 Two-Handed, +5 Heavy Armor, +5 Smithing, +5 Speech
--As a Diasporic people, they tend to be hardier and more able to survive hardships, and also much better at judging when a situation truly is flight or fight.
--Hardy and hard to kill.
--In Skyrim there are Orc mining camps and strongholds. If you can reach one, you will be among tireless and loyal friends and allies, even if they hate you.
--Can speak and read Orcish and Tamrielic.
*****
A/N: So we decided it was about time to port Skyrim to SV Quests. This is definitely in no way an AU, but is just regular Skyrim, faithfully ported.
Both I and @veteranMortal are the QMs, that is to say co-QMs, so you can ask either of us stuff or trust either of our statements to be generally true.
"Hey, you. You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there." A pause, and bitter words carefully stated. "Same as all of us."
It is cold, more bitter than the harshest words imaginable. The sound of dozens of horses stamping and clopping over hard ground filled the air, and the horses stank as horses always do. It is a cold day in what had to be Skyrim. They aren't the only person in the cart, though there are only four people. The half-dozen carts behind are packed to the gills, over a dozen people in each of them, sometimes far more, bodies all but piled up. Men and mer, Khajiit and a lone Dunmer, and quite a few Nords as well, forming a line, a procession of carts led in front by what looked like Imperial soldiers, mostly bretons.
Their mouth tastes of dirt and mud, and the dregs of a hard, bad sleep.
The man across from them is a flaxen-haired Nord, strongly built and with a strong Skyrim accent.
"Damn you Stormcloaks, Skyrim was fine until you came along," the so-called thief says, "Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been coming east from the frontier, I could have stolen that horse and gotten away clean." He spat on the ground at the feet of the fourth prisoner, dark-haired, vaguely handsome, bound and gagged both. "You and me, we shouldn't be here, it's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants." His breath smells faintly of alcohol: liquid courage. He also stinks like he got it all over him.
"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief," the ungagged Stormcloak declared.
"Shut up back there!"
This is bad. Very bad.
Who... Are You?
Gender
[] Male.
[] Female.
[] Quit asking.
Race
[] Nord: Nords are the most prominent group in Skyrim. The Nords are currently in the middle of a divisive civil war. Hardy people, they are often seen as being warlike.
--+5 to Light Armor, +5 to Speech, +5 to Smithing, +5 to Survival
--Can stand the cold better than most.
--Being the majority race in Skyrim has its own advantages.
--Has some passing knowledge of Nordic, but by default only knows Tamrielic.
[] Imperial: Imperials are the people of the core of the Empire. They tend to be better educated and relatively more prosperous than those on the periphery, but also greatly distrusted for this and other reasons.
--+5 to Heavy Armor, +5 to Speech, +5 to Block, +5 to Alchemy
--Better educated about some aspects of history and politics, albeit with some definite biases.
--The Imperials you meet might assume well of you.
[] Breton: Bretons are the people of High Rock, most loyal province of men in the empire. They have some affinity to magic, though some claim they are more mer than man.
--+5 Illusion, +5 Alchemy, +5 Conjuration, +5 Restoration
--Begin the game with the spell "Conjure Familiar."
--Somewhat more resistant to the harm done by magic.
--Tarred with the Forsworn brush in the eyes of some.
[] Redguard: The people of Hammerfell, their darker skin and relatively recent secession from the Empire after the losses of Valenwood and Elswyr have caused some distrust. They too have a somewhat warlike reputation.
--+5 Light Armor, +5 Archery, +5 One-Handed, +5 Survival
--Strong resistance against poison due to a strong constitution.
--Used to hot, dry environments and surviving in the rough. Skyrim is miserably cold, but some of the lessons might have value, right?
[] Argonian: The people of the Black Marsh, they are distrusted and discriminated against by some in Skyrim. They are sometimes associated with criminality.
--+5 Light Armor, +5 Sneak, +5 Pickpocket, +5 Restoration
--Can breathe underwater.
--Incredibly healthy, hard to sicken.
[] Khajiit: The people of occupied Elsweyr, which is currently allied with the Aldmeri Union. They are quick on their feet and deadly in unarmed combat, though also stereotyped among Imperials as thieves, skooma addicts and worse.
--+5 One-Handed, +5 Pickpocket, +5 Sneak, +5 Archery
--They can see in the dark.
--They have rather wicked claws.
[] Dunmer: The dark-elves as they are called are an outcast people with a long and complicated history. Many because of this don't get along with Argonians. They're discriminated against in Skyrim. Their traditional home is in Morrowind.
--+5 Destruction, +5 Illusion, +5 Light Armor, +5 Sneak
--They are rather resistant to fire.
--They begin with the spell 'Sparks.'
[] Altmer: The elves of the Summerset isles, they are not much welcome in Imperial territories since the war several decades past. They are famous for their magical prowess, though it is to a degree overstated. But some of the best mages in world history have been Altmer.
--+5 Enchanting, +5 Restoration, +5 Illusion, +5 Conjuration
--They are somewhat stronger magically.
--They begin with the spell 'Fury.'
--Large numbers of Nords and even non-Nords will hate you on sight.
[] Bosmer: The 'Wood elves' of Valenwood, they are part of the Aldmeri Union, whether reluctantly or not depends on the Bosmer. Known for their connection to the wilderness and their magical power, refugees from the Bosmer are a common sight in many Imperial cities.
--+5 Survival, +5 Alchemy, +5 Archery, +5 Restoration
--Bosmer are somewhat resistant against both disease and poison, though not to the extremes of either the Argonians or Redguards.
--They begin with the spell 'Command Animal.'
[] Orsimer: The orcs are a people of diaspora, known for both their smithing and their warlike posture, but always outcasts whenever they go outside their strongholds, dotted around the wild places of the world. This has created a proud, insular, but rich culture that has survived everything thrown at it.
--+5 Two-Handed, +5 Heavy Armor, +5 Smithing, +5 Speech
--As a Diasporic people, they tend to be hardier and more able to survive hardships, and also much better at judging when a situation truly is flight or fight.
--Hardy and hard to kill.
--In Skyrim there are Orc mining camps and strongholds. If you can reach one, you will be among tireless and loyal friends and allies, even if they hate you.
--Can speak and read Orcish and Tamrielic.
*****
A/N: So we decided it was about time to port Skyrim to SV Quests. This is definitely in no way an AU, but is just regular Skyrim, faithfully ported.
Both I and @veteranMortal are the QMs, that is to say co-QMs, so you can ask either of us stuff or trust either of our statements to be generally true.
Justice
- Location
- United Kingdom
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Justice (Character Creation, Part 2)
Skyrim is a cold land, and a hard one. The wind cuts through her fur as easily as her rags, and she shivers.
"What's wrong with him, huh?" The thief says, blithely disregarding the imperial soldier.
"Watch your tongue!" The Stormcloak is angry now, and she turns her gaze away. The road is getting busy; people gather in clumps to watch the carts pass. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the TRUE High King."
She does not know Ulfric Stormcloak, but she knows he opposes the empire. She knows he loves the Nords of Skyrim, and is loved in return. She knows what that means, for those who are not Nords, yet are of Skyrim. Her tail lashes involuntarily at the thought.
He does not look so mighty, bound and gagged as he is.
"Ulfric? Jarl of Windhelm?" The thief splutters, "But you're the leader of the rebellion! If the Imperials have you… Gods, where are they taking us!"
The Stormcloak smiles beatifically, leaning back. "I don't know where we're going. But Sovngarde awaits."
The thief begins to panic, but she is more interested in looking up and down the track. The imperial soldiers marching alongside the carts look tense, their hands never far from their blades. The civilians around them are angry, but sullenly quiescent. There's a town looming just up ahead. Squat and ugly, dominated by a castle and ringed with a low greystone wall, it could never be mistaken for anything other than a garrison town. The imperial soldiers on the walls look more relaxed, more slovenly, than those escorting her, at least.
"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home." The Stormcloak sounds almost content, even about to die as he is. As they all are. This is bad. Very bad.
"General Tullius, sir! We got Ulfric, sir!" Her cart driver sounds happy. That makes one of them.
"Good, good. The headsman is ready, let's get this over with." General Tullius is a man in his middle years, his armour gilded, atop a great black charger, looking for all the world like a hero of Imperial tales.
"Look at him. General Tullius. Military Advisor to Jarl Torrygg's widow and Butcher of Shor's Stone. And it looks like there's a legate with him. Damned Bretons. Their troops are why we're in this mess." The Stormcloak keeps up a running commentary as they are led through the town. Perhaps he's more nervous than he claims? The townspeople are gathered in throngs along the sides of the road, with more coming in from the rest of the town as word spreads. Mostly they seem curious, though more than a few are openly joyous. Ulfric Stormcloak, captured. She is a Khajiit, and she knows little of Skyrim's war, but even she knows that the rebellion dies with Ulfric, more likely than not.
"When I was a boy, garrisons like Helgan made me feel safe. Now I see them for what they are" The Stormcloak says, his tone dark.
At least the wind dies down, once they're inside the walls. She'll take what victories she can get.
The cart began to slow, the horses nickering their annoyance.
"Get these prisoners out of the carts! Move it!" It's a woman's voice, sharp and abrasive. Some imperial soldier, her armour buffed to a rare shine.
"End of the line, horse-thief." The Stormcloak isn't talking to her, but his tone - a sort of resigned good humour - inexplicably annoys her all the same. Who is he to feign as though he has done this sort of thing before? She can guarantee he has not been executed before.
"Step towards the block when we call your name!" The Imperial calls, as the Khajiit joins the motley line of prisoners. Most of them are in Stormcloak uniforms, but the line is dotted with other prisoners, shivering in their rags. The scent of unwashed bodies is omnipresent, and it becomes clear that one of the others has befouled themself. She can taste her own fear, rising in her throat, but she quashes it. Perhaps a hundred people have gathered in the square, a substantial fraction of Helgan's population, and she will not embarrass herself in the last moments before death. Her tail dips between her legs, all the same.
"Rumna of Skywatch, Thalmor spy." This from another imperial soldier, a broad-shouldered Nord with a large pad. His tone is flat, almost disinterested.
She looks up the line with interest - a Thalmor spy? - as the crowds erupt into murmuring.
Rumna is a tall altmer woman, standing straight and proud, despite her rags. "Would that I were a thalmor spy, imperial. Then, at least, my death would have meaning."
"Towards the block, prisoner," The female Imperial says, her disbelief almost visible, how liberally it has been applied to those few words.
Imperial soldiers up and down the line are calling out names, and the line shrinks to only a handful. The crowd is murmuring constantly, enough people speaking at once in hushed tones that it is impossible to discern conversations in particular.
"Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm." The Imperial soldier has been so emotionless he could pass for Dwemer craft, but when he calls out this name, his fury bleeds into his words despite himself.
"It has been an honour, Jarl Ulfric." The stormcloak from your cart calls out as the Jarl passes you.
He goes next, the stormcloak; Ralof of Riverwood. Only you and the horse thief remain, and he looks frantic.
"Please! I'm not a rebel! Tell them I'm not a rebel!" The man is almost in tears, stepping towards the Imperial soldiers as he appeals to the Stormcloak prisoners.
"Face your death with some dignity, thief." Ralof's tone is hard, and the thief wilts further.
"Lokir of Rorikstead. Horse thief." The Imperial soldier's eyes have returned to the list, and he won't meet Lokir's eye.
"No! You aren't the Jarl! You can't do this!" Lokir is crying in truth now, great ugly sobs between his words. He's off running before anyone can react, rushing a gap in the crowd. If he can reach the crowd, he can disappear.
"Archers!" The female Imperial bellows.
He doesn't make it to the crowd. Three arrows, one in the small of his back, one through the back of his ribcage, and one that almost dropped too low, catching him in the thigh.
The crowd backs up in horror. He falls and doesn't get up, and a pair of Imperial soldiers go to check that he's dead and take away the body, hauling it to join all the others still to come, perhaps.
"Anyone else feel like running?" Her voice is self satisfied, inflated by her heroic victory over the fleeing man in rags and bindings.
"Wait, you there. The cat. Step forward."
But who are you, really?
Background
[] A lonely hunter.
Skills: You are skilled at survival and archery, and tend to wear light, flexible armor. You knew a little bit of Restoration for old injuries, and a little bit of dagger work--as well as how to gut and clean an animal. You are also decent at setting traps and cooking food.
A Khajiit alone is a Khajiit that does not thrive. But under the faint light of the moon, the reflection of an Elsweyr that probably never existed, you have survived. You live up in northern Cyrodiil, and there are very few Khajiit around you, let alone ones you were at all close to. You're good at hunting for a young hand, but you have a lot left to learn and without friends in the northern hunting and trapping circles, you still catch enough to pay for your hovel out in the woods and any food you can't hunt up. One day, you simply strayed a little too far in chasing an animal… and now here you are. In a land that's even less welcoming than Cyrodiil is to Khajiit. Alone, and now about to be killed for nothing: that's Khajiit's life in a nutshell.
But you're also a survivor. The heart is a lonely hunter, and if only there was more time you might have sighted and downed your prey.
[] A Caravan guard.
Skills: You are very good with a one-handed sword, and skilled at light armor. You know your way around a camp, but little more than that. You know how to block a hit, but prefer to push harder and faster if at all possible.
Your mother fought for the wrong side. Which side was that? Why, the side of Elsweyr. She worked with the Rising when it began, and then when the Imperials used it as an excuse to conquer Elsweyr and try to make it a subject state, she took money from the Aldmeri to fight the Imperials. And then, when the Aldmeri were regaining ground, she took money from the Imperials to fight the Aldmeri. For this, everyone called her a bandit, and she was imprisoned after the war, kept alive while she was being tried and executed two years later.
All this time, you have wanted to reclaim the honor and status that you once had. But in this new world, what honor is there? You became a Caravan guard. This is your second trade mission. The first was a boring one to Hammerfell, where you had little to do but practice your sword swinging and explore the market towns. This second one, though… it's ended very, very badly.
But you're a survivor from a survivor race, one that has endured centuries of misery fighting for the right to see the sun. Can you survive even this?
[] A failed Battlemage.
Skills: You are solid at using both a sword and a one-handed axe, and reasonably used to wearing heavy armor and moving around in it. You are mediocre at best at Restoration, and have but a faint skill at Alteration, but are solid at Destruction for someone not fully trained and have a little bit of skill at enchanting.
Born in the Khajiit District in the Imperial City, you showed an aptitude for both the rough fighting of Khajiit children and magic, and so ultimately as a loyal Imperial citizen, you tried to become a Battlemage. In the aftermath of the war, the Empire was trying to recover its numbers, strength, and overall power, and so it was recruiting many apprentices. You had skill with magic, and skill with both a sword and a one-handed axe, but you lacked the 'right temperament' for it, and fell behind in some areas even as you excelled in others. All in all, it was not that surprising that you ultimately failed out… but it left your parents disappointed and your future suddenly unwritten.
You worked around as a mercenary for a while, even working with the exclusive Fighters Guild, which had absurd standards for membership by that time… unless you knew someone inside the Guild. Ultimately, you decided to go North to try to get a fresh start. It was perhaps ill-timed, but the reports in Cyrodiil downplayed the civil war and its intensity quite a lot.
Now, you're on the chopping block, and before you ever really accomplished anything. A little good at magic, a little good at fighting, and with your hands tied and no way to use any of those skills.
[] A 'rogue' trader.
Skill: You have some talent at surviving on your own, smithing, enchanting, defending yourself with a knife, and of course a decent amount of talent and talking to people… and even a little skill at sneaking around. You have a grab bag of abilities, a cat of all trades, including smithing and enchanting. But you've mastered none of them, not even remotely.
Most caravan trips are subsidized nowaday, by families, houses, or the government itself as part of their attempt to bring wealth to Elsweyr and the Union. But there are some traders who reject that, whether out of patriotism or an attempt to get around the rules and regulations governing the smuggling of goods both legal (but duty-free) and illegal, or even just out of a loner's tendency.
You were one such trader, operating on the shadow between legality and illegality. At long last you have stepped over the line and gotten smacked down. But instead of a fine or a dicey situation to flee from… you're facing death. You're young and footloose, as attached to the 'romance' of being a free trader as anything else, and yet now you face a most unromantic and brutal death, stripped of what goods and gold you have and led to the block.
[] A young shaman.
Skills: You are solidly trained as an apprentice in Alchemy, Illusions, and Conjurations, and know a solid smattering of other magic. You also have some survival and stealth skills, but your knowledge of a bow and dagger are both mediocre, by far your worst subjects before you came up to Skyrim.
The magical traditions of Elsweyr are great, though often unknown outside of the Khajiit. All manner of Khajiit are strong in magic, including many that would be dismissed by Man and Mer as 'cats.' But it's a magical tradition that focuses on secrets and lies, on Illusion and Conjuration and careful alchemy, rather than on the more destructive and obvious methods. You are good for a novice, for someone half-trained and sent out in the world. As part of the traditions of such magical sages and shamans, you must journey throughout the world to serve the Khajiit living far from Elsweyr.
And in Skyrim, there is a community of Khajiit on the outskirts of Whiterun that lack any magical protection and aid. It is your charge--a sacred charge no less--to aid them. Instead, traveling with a Caravan, you have run into a trap. You are now facing death surrounded on all sides by people who know not the magic you have. You regret every missed lesson, every half-trained element of your magics. If you'd known more, you could have just disappeared entirely.
Devout and devoted and trapped, you stammer your name, more afraid than you've ever been in your life.
[] An Ex-Thieves Guild Member
Skills: You are good at sneaking, picking locks and pockets, and using a dagger. You're somewhat articulate and clever on your feet… but you're a city cat at heart, with all the downsides that brings. Still, you've won fights before… sometimes in unfortunate ways.
Becoming world-famous was the best and worst thing that ever happened to the Thieves Guild of Cyrodiil. The tell-all book in the early days of the 4th Era exposed the nature of the mask and the power of the Thieves Guild, focusing on the heroic tale of the 'Secret Thief' of mystery. It ushered in an era both of far greater power and influence… but also infiltration and infighting. As the Empire decayed, the Thieves guild grew but also grew labyrinthine.
You were just a novice thief, still climbing her way up the ladder in Imperial City--the daughter of a refugee from the Rising, but quite disconnected from all of that--when something happened. Someone revealed the location of a major meeting, and dozens of Thieves were captured and sentenced to hard labor.
Then, you were blamed. You had no way to fight the accusations, and when one of your friends came after you to try to get the 'truth' out of you, you fought back. Your claws found his throat almost entirely by accident. Any hope you had of explaining things then went out the window, and you fled for the north… and right into an Imperial trap.
You've never been caught, so nobody knows who you are, and even the murder is probably… being dealt with by the Guild. But your attempt to escape their reach has ended very, very badly. The kind of deep shit your mother always said you'd end up in.
[] A former Bandit
Skills: Two-handed weapons, including heavy hammers, swords, and axes. Heavy armor. Survival skills. Negotiating the prices for loot. Blocking attacks. A very little healing magic, inexpert at this stage. You're also a solid blacksmith, though primarily in repairing your own goods.
During the last War, irregulars were sent to Hammerfell to harass the shipping lanes and hopefully draw away Imperial Legions to protect Hammerfell. The Aldmeri gambit failed as the Empire left the people of Hammerfell to deal with it themselves while in the middle of a bitter civil war across the Alik'r Desert, so the Empire could continue pressing the Thalmor in Valenwood. After the war was over, though, at least some of these irregulars--including some loyalist Khajiit-- stuck around in Hammerfell as bandits.
Including your father. You grew up into the trade as he did, but eventually you decided that perhaps you should change your ways and live a new life. Give up the old war, and an Aldmeri Union that had discarded these 'bandits' once the war came to an end… and yet Elsweyr was a land where you would have only been regarded as the daughter of a traitor and collaborator, and the Empire was not somewhere you wanted to be either. Leaving you with very few choices in the world. But Skyrim was worth a try, perhaps.
And now you were caught by the Imperials at last, and not for anything you'd done at all.
Sub-Races
The Khajiit have many forms, based in part on the phase of the moon they were born in. Only some of them are common outside of Elsweyr, and only some of them fit in this Quest. Some wouldn't be there at all, others would have either not been arrested or probably been 'killed while resisting arrest.' But even with those eliminated, there was still…
[] Ohmes-raht
In posture and body language, the Ohmes-raht are more similar to Men than other Khajiit, and so Ohmes-raht will often serve as diplomats and liaisons with the empire. Diminutive in stature, Ohmes-raht are rarely considered by outsiders for martial positions, but this is not to say they are ineffective. More common in years gone past, they are now uncommonly seen outside of Elswehr unless serving as ambassadors and diplomats.
[] Suthay-raht
Suthay-raht are taller than Ohmes-raht, and move with a lithe grace, evocative of a cat in truth, even bipedal as they are. They are often considered to be more naturally stealthy than other khajiit, with the commensurate mistrust that this implies. They are, however, widely respected as an absolute terror to fight, flashing claws and snarling jaws.
[] Cathay
Cathay are the most common Khajiit in Cyrodiil and Skyrim. Of a size with men, their relative loss of poise compared with the suthay-raht is balanced out by their undeniable advantage in strength. Cathay are oft regarded by the world outside Elsweyr as the most martial of the "conventional" khajiit, and are generally seen as a step below Orcs in military prowess.
The differences between the conventionally bipedal khajiit forms are less of a gulf than many think, and exist more in the minds of others than anywhere else.
Names
Khajiit names function to define who they are, especially since the Khajiit tongue doesn't have first person pronouns, usually. How much a particular Khajiit uses third person often depends entirely on where they stand culturally and how much experience with Tamrilic and the outside world they have. So names matter! You can choose from any of the presets, or use the generator linked below. As well, for someone like the Hunter, they might have an 'Imperial' name, and for someone like the Thief they might go for something like a shadow name or a nickname. So you can be creative, but no, calling her Catra is not creative.
Khajiit last names are a mixture of house names, and names that are given by deed. The former are generally pretty rare, and might mark an old family--though family glory can be quite faded by centuries. The latter are added to names: The Liar, The Swift, Oak-Heart, or more, and generally relate to their deeds. Of course, plenty of people give themselves such a last name and try to make people believe in it.
https://www.fantasynamegenerators.com/khajiit_names.php
https://codexnomina.com/khajiit-names/
[] Tsani Silverclaw
[] Rinita Tabav
[] Naahani the Swift
[] Mkai Twiceborn
[] Yameea Sharptongue
[] Mahazi the Lame
[] Sayya
[] Ekapi Tripfoot
[] Write-in, there's plentiful resources to look at, and you can also just make up either titles, names, or both. Nicknames are good too. Just give it some thought. We have a veto if needs be.
*****
TL AN: Please, plan vote!
vM AN: More character creation, but hopefully it isn't too boring. We covered a bit more ground with the lore section this time. I'll echo @The Laurent - please vote by plan, it makes it much easier to tell what people want. We're allowing approval voting too.
Skyrim is a cold land, and a hard one. The wind cuts through her fur as easily as her rags, and she shivers.
"What's wrong with him, huh?" The thief says, blithely disregarding the imperial soldier.
"Watch your tongue!" The Stormcloak is angry now, and she turns her gaze away. The road is getting busy; people gather in clumps to watch the carts pass. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the TRUE High King."
She does not know Ulfric Stormcloak, but she knows he opposes the empire. She knows he loves the Nords of Skyrim, and is loved in return. She knows what that means, for those who are not Nords, yet are of Skyrim. Her tail lashes involuntarily at the thought.
He does not look so mighty, bound and gagged as he is.
"Ulfric? Jarl of Windhelm?" The thief splutters, "But you're the leader of the rebellion! If the Imperials have you… Gods, where are they taking us!"
The Stormcloak smiles beatifically, leaning back. "I don't know where we're going. But Sovngarde awaits."
The thief begins to panic, but she is more interested in looking up and down the track. The imperial soldiers marching alongside the carts look tense, their hands never far from their blades. The civilians around them are angry, but sullenly quiescent. There's a town looming just up ahead. Squat and ugly, dominated by a castle and ringed with a low greystone wall, it could never be mistaken for anything other than a garrison town. The imperial soldiers on the walls look more relaxed, more slovenly, than those escorting her, at least.
"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home." The Stormcloak sounds almost content, even about to die as he is. As they all are. This is bad. Very bad.
"General Tullius, sir! We got Ulfric, sir!" Her cart driver sounds happy. That makes one of them.
"Good, good. The headsman is ready, let's get this over with." General Tullius is a man in his middle years, his armour gilded, atop a great black charger, looking for all the world like a hero of Imperial tales.
"Look at him. General Tullius. Military Advisor to Jarl Torrygg's widow and Butcher of Shor's Stone. And it looks like there's a legate with him. Damned Bretons. Their troops are why we're in this mess." The Stormcloak keeps up a running commentary as they are led through the town. Perhaps he's more nervous than he claims? The townspeople are gathered in throngs along the sides of the road, with more coming in from the rest of the town as word spreads. Mostly they seem curious, though more than a few are openly joyous. Ulfric Stormcloak, captured. She is a Khajiit, and she knows little of Skyrim's war, but even she knows that the rebellion dies with Ulfric, more likely than not.
"When I was a boy, garrisons like Helgan made me feel safe. Now I see them for what they are" The Stormcloak says, his tone dark.
At least the wind dies down, once they're inside the walls. She'll take what victories she can get.
The cart began to slow, the horses nickering their annoyance.
"Get these prisoners out of the carts! Move it!" It's a woman's voice, sharp and abrasive. Some imperial soldier, her armour buffed to a rare shine.
"End of the line, horse-thief." The Stormcloak isn't talking to her, but his tone - a sort of resigned good humour - inexplicably annoys her all the same. Who is he to feign as though he has done this sort of thing before? She can guarantee he has not been executed before.
"Step towards the block when we call your name!" The Imperial calls, as the Khajiit joins the motley line of prisoners. Most of them are in Stormcloak uniforms, but the line is dotted with other prisoners, shivering in their rags. The scent of unwashed bodies is omnipresent, and it becomes clear that one of the others has befouled themself. She can taste her own fear, rising in her throat, but she quashes it. Perhaps a hundred people have gathered in the square, a substantial fraction of Helgan's population, and she will not embarrass herself in the last moments before death. Her tail dips between her legs, all the same.
"Rumna of Skywatch, Thalmor spy." This from another imperial soldier, a broad-shouldered Nord with a large pad. His tone is flat, almost disinterested.
She looks up the line with interest - a Thalmor spy? - as the crowds erupt into murmuring.
Rumna is a tall altmer woman, standing straight and proud, despite her rags. "Would that I were a thalmor spy, imperial. Then, at least, my death would have meaning."
"Towards the block, prisoner," The female Imperial says, her disbelief almost visible, how liberally it has been applied to those few words.
Imperial soldiers up and down the line are calling out names, and the line shrinks to only a handful. The crowd is murmuring constantly, enough people speaking at once in hushed tones that it is impossible to discern conversations in particular.
"Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm." The Imperial soldier has been so emotionless he could pass for Dwemer craft, but when he calls out this name, his fury bleeds into his words despite himself.
"It has been an honour, Jarl Ulfric." The stormcloak from your cart calls out as the Jarl passes you.
He goes next, the stormcloak; Ralof of Riverwood. Only you and the horse thief remain, and he looks frantic.
"Please! I'm not a rebel! Tell them I'm not a rebel!" The man is almost in tears, stepping towards the Imperial soldiers as he appeals to the Stormcloak prisoners.
"Face your death with some dignity, thief." Ralof's tone is hard, and the thief wilts further.
"Lokir of Rorikstead. Horse thief." The Imperial soldier's eyes have returned to the list, and he won't meet Lokir's eye.
"No! You aren't the Jarl! You can't do this!" Lokir is crying in truth now, great ugly sobs between his words. He's off running before anyone can react, rushing a gap in the crowd. If he can reach the crowd, he can disappear.
"Archers!" The female Imperial bellows.
He doesn't make it to the crowd. Three arrows, one in the small of his back, one through the back of his ribcage, and one that almost dropped too low, catching him in the thigh.
The crowd backs up in horror. He falls and doesn't get up, and a pair of Imperial soldiers go to check that he's dead and take away the body, hauling it to join all the others still to come, perhaps.
"Anyone else feel like running?" Her voice is self satisfied, inflated by her heroic victory over the fleeing man in rags and bindings.
"Wait, you there. The cat. Step forward."
But who are you, really?
Background
[] A lonely hunter.
Skills: You are skilled at survival and archery, and tend to wear light, flexible armor. You knew a little bit of Restoration for old injuries, and a little bit of dagger work--as well as how to gut and clean an animal. You are also decent at setting traps and cooking food.
A Khajiit alone is a Khajiit that does not thrive. But under the faint light of the moon, the reflection of an Elsweyr that probably never existed, you have survived. You live up in northern Cyrodiil, and there are very few Khajiit around you, let alone ones you were at all close to. You're good at hunting for a young hand, but you have a lot left to learn and without friends in the northern hunting and trapping circles, you still catch enough to pay for your hovel out in the woods and any food you can't hunt up. One day, you simply strayed a little too far in chasing an animal… and now here you are. In a land that's even less welcoming than Cyrodiil is to Khajiit. Alone, and now about to be killed for nothing: that's Khajiit's life in a nutshell.
But you're also a survivor. The heart is a lonely hunter, and if only there was more time you might have sighted and downed your prey.
[] A Caravan guard.
Skills: You are very good with a one-handed sword, and skilled at light armor. You know your way around a camp, but little more than that. You know how to block a hit, but prefer to push harder and faster if at all possible.
Your mother fought for the wrong side. Which side was that? Why, the side of Elsweyr. She worked with the Rising when it began, and then when the Imperials used it as an excuse to conquer Elsweyr and try to make it a subject state, she took money from the Aldmeri to fight the Imperials. And then, when the Aldmeri were regaining ground, she took money from the Imperials to fight the Aldmeri. For this, everyone called her a bandit, and she was imprisoned after the war, kept alive while she was being tried and executed two years later.
All this time, you have wanted to reclaim the honor and status that you once had. But in this new world, what honor is there? You became a Caravan guard. This is your second trade mission. The first was a boring one to Hammerfell, where you had little to do but practice your sword swinging and explore the market towns. This second one, though… it's ended very, very badly.
But you're a survivor from a survivor race, one that has endured centuries of misery fighting for the right to see the sun. Can you survive even this?
[] A failed Battlemage.
Skills: You are solid at using both a sword and a one-handed axe, and reasonably used to wearing heavy armor and moving around in it. You are mediocre at best at Restoration, and have but a faint skill at Alteration, but are solid at Destruction for someone not fully trained and have a little bit of skill at enchanting.
Born in the Khajiit District in the Imperial City, you showed an aptitude for both the rough fighting of Khajiit children and magic, and so ultimately as a loyal Imperial citizen, you tried to become a Battlemage. In the aftermath of the war, the Empire was trying to recover its numbers, strength, and overall power, and so it was recruiting many apprentices. You had skill with magic, and skill with both a sword and a one-handed axe, but you lacked the 'right temperament' for it, and fell behind in some areas even as you excelled in others. All in all, it was not that surprising that you ultimately failed out… but it left your parents disappointed and your future suddenly unwritten.
You worked around as a mercenary for a while, even working with the exclusive Fighters Guild, which had absurd standards for membership by that time… unless you knew someone inside the Guild. Ultimately, you decided to go North to try to get a fresh start. It was perhaps ill-timed, but the reports in Cyrodiil downplayed the civil war and its intensity quite a lot.
Now, you're on the chopping block, and before you ever really accomplished anything. A little good at magic, a little good at fighting, and with your hands tied and no way to use any of those skills.
[] A 'rogue' trader.
Skill: You have some talent at surviving on your own, smithing, enchanting, defending yourself with a knife, and of course a decent amount of talent and talking to people… and even a little skill at sneaking around. You have a grab bag of abilities, a cat of all trades, including smithing and enchanting. But you've mastered none of them, not even remotely.
Most caravan trips are subsidized nowaday, by families, houses, or the government itself as part of their attempt to bring wealth to Elsweyr and the Union. But there are some traders who reject that, whether out of patriotism or an attempt to get around the rules and regulations governing the smuggling of goods both legal (but duty-free) and illegal, or even just out of a loner's tendency.
You were one such trader, operating on the shadow between legality and illegality. At long last you have stepped over the line and gotten smacked down. But instead of a fine or a dicey situation to flee from… you're facing death. You're young and footloose, as attached to the 'romance' of being a free trader as anything else, and yet now you face a most unromantic and brutal death, stripped of what goods and gold you have and led to the block.
[] A young shaman.
Skills: You are solidly trained as an apprentice in Alchemy, Illusions, and Conjurations, and know a solid smattering of other magic. You also have some survival and stealth skills, but your knowledge of a bow and dagger are both mediocre, by far your worst subjects before you came up to Skyrim.
The magical traditions of Elsweyr are great, though often unknown outside of the Khajiit. All manner of Khajiit are strong in magic, including many that would be dismissed by Man and Mer as 'cats.' But it's a magical tradition that focuses on secrets and lies, on Illusion and Conjuration and careful alchemy, rather than on the more destructive and obvious methods. You are good for a novice, for someone half-trained and sent out in the world. As part of the traditions of such magical sages and shamans, you must journey throughout the world to serve the Khajiit living far from Elsweyr.
And in Skyrim, there is a community of Khajiit on the outskirts of Whiterun that lack any magical protection and aid. It is your charge--a sacred charge no less--to aid them. Instead, traveling with a Caravan, you have run into a trap. You are now facing death surrounded on all sides by people who know not the magic you have. You regret every missed lesson, every half-trained element of your magics. If you'd known more, you could have just disappeared entirely.
Devout and devoted and trapped, you stammer your name, more afraid than you've ever been in your life.
[] An Ex-Thieves Guild Member
Skills: You are good at sneaking, picking locks and pockets, and using a dagger. You're somewhat articulate and clever on your feet… but you're a city cat at heart, with all the downsides that brings. Still, you've won fights before… sometimes in unfortunate ways.
Becoming world-famous was the best and worst thing that ever happened to the Thieves Guild of Cyrodiil. The tell-all book in the early days of the 4th Era exposed the nature of the mask and the power of the Thieves Guild, focusing on the heroic tale of the 'Secret Thief' of mystery. It ushered in an era both of far greater power and influence… but also infiltration and infighting. As the Empire decayed, the Thieves guild grew but also grew labyrinthine.
You were just a novice thief, still climbing her way up the ladder in Imperial City--the daughter of a refugee from the Rising, but quite disconnected from all of that--when something happened. Someone revealed the location of a major meeting, and dozens of Thieves were captured and sentenced to hard labor.
Then, you were blamed. You had no way to fight the accusations, and when one of your friends came after you to try to get the 'truth' out of you, you fought back. Your claws found his throat almost entirely by accident. Any hope you had of explaining things then went out the window, and you fled for the north… and right into an Imperial trap.
You've never been caught, so nobody knows who you are, and even the murder is probably… being dealt with by the Guild. But your attempt to escape their reach has ended very, very badly. The kind of deep shit your mother always said you'd end up in.
[] A former Bandit
Skills: Two-handed weapons, including heavy hammers, swords, and axes. Heavy armor. Survival skills. Negotiating the prices for loot. Blocking attacks. A very little healing magic, inexpert at this stage. You're also a solid blacksmith, though primarily in repairing your own goods.
During the last War, irregulars were sent to Hammerfell to harass the shipping lanes and hopefully draw away Imperial Legions to protect Hammerfell. The Aldmeri gambit failed as the Empire left the people of Hammerfell to deal with it themselves while in the middle of a bitter civil war across the Alik'r Desert, so the Empire could continue pressing the Thalmor in Valenwood. After the war was over, though, at least some of these irregulars--including some loyalist Khajiit-- stuck around in Hammerfell as bandits.
Including your father. You grew up into the trade as he did, but eventually you decided that perhaps you should change your ways and live a new life. Give up the old war, and an Aldmeri Union that had discarded these 'bandits' once the war came to an end… and yet Elsweyr was a land where you would have only been regarded as the daughter of a traitor and collaborator, and the Empire was not somewhere you wanted to be either. Leaving you with very few choices in the world. But Skyrim was worth a try, perhaps.
And now you were caught by the Imperials at last, and not for anything you'd done at all.
Sub-Races
The Khajiit have many forms, based in part on the phase of the moon they were born in. Only some of them are common outside of Elsweyr, and only some of them fit in this Quest. Some wouldn't be there at all, others would have either not been arrested or probably been 'killed while resisting arrest.' But even with those eliminated, there was still…
[] Ohmes-raht
In posture and body language, the Ohmes-raht are more similar to Men than other Khajiit, and so Ohmes-raht will often serve as diplomats and liaisons with the empire. Diminutive in stature, Ohmes-raht are rarely considered by outsiders for martial positions, but this is not to say they are ineffective. More common in years gone past, they are now uncommonly seen outside of Elswehr unless serving as ambassadors and diplomats.
[] Suthay-raht
Suthay-raht are taller than Ohmes-raht, and move with a lithe grace, evocative of a cat in truth, even bipedal as they are. They are often considered to be more naturally stealthy than other khajiit, with the commensurate mistrust that this implies. They are, however, widely respected as an absolute terror to fight, flashing claws and snarling jaws.
[] Cathay
Cathay are the most common Khajiit in Cyrodiil and Skyrim. Of a size with men, their relative loss of poise compared with the suthay-raht is balanced out by their undeniable advantage in strength. Cathay are oft regarded by the world outside Elsweyr as the most martial of the "conventional" khajiit, and are generally seen as a step below Orcs in military prowess.
The differences between the conventionally bipedal khajiit forms are less of a gulf than many think, and exist more in the minds of others than anywhere else.
Names
Khajiit names function to define who they are, especially since the Khajiit tongue doesn't have first person pronouns, usually. How much a particular Khajiit uses third person often depends entirely on where they stand culturally and how much experience with Tamrilic and the outside world they have. So names matter! You can choose from any of the presets, or use the generator linked below. As well, for someone like the Hunter, they might have an 'Imperial' name, and for someone like the Thief they might go for something like a shadow name or a nickname. So you can be creative, but no, calling her Catra is not creative.
Khajiit last names are a mixture of house names, and names that are given by deed. The former are generally pretty rare, and might mark an old family--though family glory can be quite faded by centuries. The latter are added to names: The Liar, The Swift, Oak-Heart, or more, and generally relate to their deeds. Of course, plenty of people give themselves such a last name and try to make people believe in it.
https://www.fantasynamegenerators.com/khajiit_names.php
https://codexnomina.com/khajiit-names/
[] Tsani Silverclaw
[] Rinita Tabav
[] Naahani the Swift
[] Mkai Twiceborn
[] Yameea Sharptongue
[] Mahazi the Lame
[] Sayya
[] Ekapi Tripfoot
[] Write-in, there's plentiful resources to look at, and you can also just make up either titles, names, or both. Nicknames are good too. Just give it some thought. We have a veto if needs be.
*****
TL AN: Please, plan vote!
vM AN: More character creation, but hopefully it isn't too boring. We covered a bit more ground with the lore section this time. I'll echo @The Laurent - please vote by plan, it makes it much easier to tell what people want. We're allowing approval voting too.
Vote closed, Character Creation
- Location
- United Kingdom
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Adhoc vote count started by veteranMortal on Jul 29, 2021 at 12:00 PM, finished with 51 posts and 42 votes.
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[X]Plan Best Utility Mage
- [X] A young shaman.
- [X] Suthay-raht
- [X] Do'azda Kihrmnin- BananosMoon
- HeroCooky
- Gladsome
- NemoMarx
- Minkstur
- MaimakteriAnn
- Parzival95
- CatOnTheWeb
- thewatcher
- WheelOfFortune
- Soulforce
- Undead Martyr
- spiritualatheist
- LilyWitch
- Sara
- The Red Prince
- Aranfan
- Shape of Fire
- Krazyfan1
- Travler66
- Solarion
- Blademaster
- Derpmind
- TheNotoriousSMP
- Eternal_0bserver
- Zimmerwald1915
- Doctor Elsewhere
- silentspirals
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[X] Plan Literally Han Solo
-[X] A 'rogue' trader.
-[X] Ohmes-raht
-[X] Write-in: Haniya the Orphan
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[X] M'aiq Has Lores If You Have Coins
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[X] M'aiq Has Lores If You Have Coin
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[X] Dwarf Fortress
- [X] A former Bandit
- [X] Cathay
- [X] Mahazi the Lame
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[X] M'aiq Has Lores If You Have Coin
- [X] A young shaman.
- [X] Suthay-raht
-[X] Satt'aiq the Liar (Satt'aiq the fourty-third, allegedly)
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[x] Destruction is a perfectly valid school of magic
-[x] A failed battlemage.
-[X] Ohmes-raht
-[x] Write-in: Shabani, Shasha for friends
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[x] Destruction is a perfectly valid school of magic
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[x] Destruction is a perfectly valid school of magic
-[x] A failed battlemage.
-[X] Ohmes-raht
-[x] Write-in: Shabani, Shasha for friends
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Execution (Character Creation, Finale)
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Execution (Character Creation, Finale)
She is supposed to be a Shaman of her people. Dignity is key, and fear is meant to be a tool that she will first learn to banish, and then one day learn to use against the enemies of the Khajiit and the community. The spirits and beings of the world know fear, and know how to use it. But she is afraid: she's young and uncertain.
"Who… are you?"
"D-do'azda K-kihrmnin." She curses her stumbling tongue.
"You with one of the trade caravans, Khajiit? Your kind always seems to find trouble. Captain, what should we do, D-do'azda K-khrminn is not on the list?" the man says, accusingly, looking at her as if it is her fault
The proud Imperial Captain sniffs, shaking her head. "Forget the list, the Skooma smuggler goes to the block."
"By your orders, captain," the list-maker said, and then added. "We will make sure your remains are returned to Elsweyr."
It is better than being buried in cold, hard ground, but she wants to shake him. The Captain has not given any reason beyond bloodlust to want a Khajiit dead. She's a Shaman, and of all the people to join the Stormcloaks, surely her and the rest of a Khajiit caravan would be the last to be suspected?
Her tail swishes, angrily, even as she keeps an even, blank look on her face. She is not tall, compared to these Men, and no doubt even her anger would be seen more as amusing than alarming.
She needs to have dignity: when a Shaman and other Khajiit are to be executed, the Shaman is to either die first or last among them. She either provides a guide into the void or a blessing as they pass. There are even stories of notable Shamans serving as the last priests to a line of prisoners before--without flinching and with the greatest heroism--laying their own heads down on the block.
Do'azda Khirmnin is a well-taught Shaman, but in these moments the formulas and rituals flee and flee quickly. Shamans are as common if not more so than priests, and if anything even more trusted. Priests answer far more directly to the Governor in the Palace of the Mane.
"Forward," the Captain says, and most of the prisoners step forward.
General Tullius has gotten off his high horse, and stands now before Ulfric Stormcloak. The wind whips through the plaza. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgan call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use the Thu'um to murder his King and usurp his throne."
Ulfric simply glares, as Tullius continues his speech, voice carrying as if he has given a hundred such speeches. "You started this war, you have plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Legion is going to put you down and restore the peace."
There are shouts of approval and boos and hisses, and not just from the Stormcloak soldiers.
"Skyrim will have peace and prosperity under High King Elisif or any other rightfully elected Jarl, and with the aid and friendship of the Empire. The Empire--"
"Get on with it!" an angry, blonde Stormcloak yells from the docks.
"Very well," Tullius said. "Begin with him. Ulfric is to be neither first nor last."
"Very well," the Captain says, looking over. There is a priest standing in front of the block, an executioner at the ready, and a half-dozen Nords who look like garrison soldiers, ready to take away the bodies.
The Empire likes its lists, the Stormcloak that rode with her says: they also like their orderly affairs, and so there's a brief fluster as everyone tries to work out who dies first.
"Sven Svendson," the Imperial list-keeper calls, and the angry blond man is driven forward to face the axe.
"Give him his last rites," the Captain demands, and the female priest raises her hands, clad in voluminous robes and half obscured.
"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Nine Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved..."
Do'azda tunes it out, and tries to think of what to do. But there's no way to escape: she saw what trying to escape would get, and she's not nearly as nimble as the thief is. Was.
Her ears twitch in dismay, and finally the headsmen ends it after a last defiant set of words by the Stormcloak (("My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?") A single swing, and Sven is in Sovngarde.
"Next, one of the cats," the Captain said. "Av'rit Dew-Claw."
A young Khajiit of Cathay extraction stumbles forward. He's handsome, in the way all healthy young cats are, with golden-brown fur and a single piercing in one ear, which jangles just slightly. He's a follower of Khenarthi, then, or at least a minor devotee. Her winds blow hard, and the bell jingles just slightly as he makes his way to the block.
He has to stand, because one of the garrison soldiers, a Nord with brown hair, is saying a quick prayer to the dead while hauling Sven away.
"Hurry it up, Hadvar," one of his compatriots said.
But this gives her time, and she musters her strength and will and speaks out. She has techniques to make her own voice heard, and she knows that there is nothing else the Imperials can do. They're going to kill her anyways, along with the Altmer, along with the other Khajiit, and along with the only death that anyone in the halls of the great and powerful will ever know and care about: Ulfric Stormcloak.
"May Magrus shine down upon you, and light your way, may Namiira notice you not, may Khenarthi take you to Llesw'er in peace and safety," Do'azda Khirmnin says, intoning the voice in the old language, the words as well-worn as a dance with a close friend. Av'rit's tail stills, his ears cease their nervous flicker, and she sees him centre himself at her words.
Hadvar startles. "Is she a priest? Should we… should she say the blessings for the other Khajiit?" He raises his voice, and Do'azda notices the eyes of everyone upon her. For a moment she hopes: it is cold comfort, but she wants to do at least one duty. She let down Rajhin, her familiar, let him die (temporarily, but die all the same) for her, and she has proven no sort of Shaman at all. But she can do this: say the words, mean them, and hope that she will be judged a True Cat.
"Quiet, Legionnaire!" the Captain barks.
General Tullius, though, considers it for a long moment. "No, it would take too long to say both rites, Legionnaire."
Hadvar accepts this with at least enough grace not to protest any longer, as the priest says another blessing, as if the one just spoken is not enough. Just as the headsman prepares to bring down the axe, there is a distant roar.
"What was that?" A man asked.
"Nothing, get on with it," the Captain says. The headsman swings, and hopefully a soul flies off towards Llesw'er. Hadvar, the respectful garrison soldier, handles the body with unnecessary care: Khajiit understand that the body is just a vessel. "Next, the chatty cat." She looks at Do'azda with undisguised malice. She blames Do'azda, and her glare is fierce and affronted, as if the Khajiit is a monster for saying a blessing.
There are hisses from all the Khajiit, and yells. But the Imperial guards apply club and fist if they need to, vicious and unworried about the bruises on those soon to be dead. The block is now slick with blood, and when she gets closer she can smell it. It's a powerful smell.
"Do'azda would a… ask to be killed last, that she might tend to the death words of her fellow Khajiit," she protests, in her best Tamrielic. She has learned much of it, but not enough to keep from feeling awkward when she speaks.
"Head on the block, cat," the Captain says, dismissively.
She knees down, and lowers her head to touch where blood has only just been cleared. It is sticky and it stinks. She wants to close her eyes. She keeps them open and stares ahead at the tower.
There is another roar, far off. Some animal? Or is it the crowd?
Some are whispering, some are laughing or speculating, and it all blurs together into its own sort of roar. Is she just imagining the sound? It calls to her in some way she cannot describe.
End of the line, Khajiit, but before we go… tell me a little bit more:
Traits (Choose 3)
Traits are small things, usually not particularly mechanically important. They're being a little taller than average, having a set of wicked scars, an enjoyment of fine Elvish wine or rough Orcish rotgut, or a real skill at cards. Little things. But they add up.
[] Aren't you a little...
-[] Tall for a Suthay-raht
-[] Short for a Suthay-raht
Do'azda is notably distinct from other Suthay-raht, for her height is unusual for Khajiit of this extraction
[] Don't put weight on it
When Do'azda was only a kitten, she climbed one of the great trees of the Elsweyr jungles. She climbed and climbed, high enough almost to reach Khenarthi's domain, when the branch beneath her foot gave way with a stomach-churning crack.
The break in her hindleg never quite healed perfectly, and in times of stress, she has been known to limp.
[] Like the wind
No cat on two paws can outpace Do'azda. She is a shaman, and not given to boast, but it is true, and has been since she was a kitten. Were she so inclined, she could've made a comfortable life for herself as a courier, for some merchant or another.
[] The life of a party.
While a Shaman and thus given to serious pursuits, she knows how to hold her whiskey, wine, beer and more, and has been able to give as good as she is given when it comes to carousing. It gives her no special social acumen, but it's enjoyable at least.
[] Lightweight
It doesn't cost much for Do'azda to get drunk. A glass of wine or two and she was flushed and incredibly tipsy. She's not much of a head for alcohol, but she still partakes sometimes, and it can be its own kind of fun.
[] Abstentious
Alcohol blurs the senses, like skooma but less so. All the same, Do'azda will not touch the stuff, preferring to keep her wits. If it fails to endear her to some? So be it.
[] Read 'Em And Weep
Do'azda is surprisingly good at card games and games of chance. While this luck doesn't seem to intrude on other areas of her life, if you put a set of cards in front of her and halfway explain a game, she knows how to read the cards and figure out how to win.
[] Cards On The Table
She has terrible luck… maybe in life considering where she is now, but especially at cards and dice. If she rolls a dice, it might as well be cursed for all that it obeys her will, and even decent bets and good cards are not enough to save her.
[] A Romance Or Three
She appreciates a good romance. Also an okay romance. She will also make do with a bad romance. She just loves romance novels--and adventure novels, but less so--and goes through them at an alarming rate in Elsweyr. Does it teach her something about Nord society that she's read several different stories about Strapping Nord Warriors and the men and women and others they court? No, not really. But it's good fun.
[] Sing a song.
Do'azda has a good singing voice, and an enjoyment for the kinds of songs that are sung in public: of adventure, of battle, of daring thievery and cunning heroism against evil oppressors. (Not all songs are subtle in their view of the Thalmor.) She knows them all, and can sing them by heart.
[] They say it kills cats
Do'azda has few restraints on her inquisitive nature, asking whatever questions occur to her, paying little attention to whether this may be considered rude. Whatever else, at least Do'azda never finds herself regretting her failure to ask about something.
[] Dancing the night away
Do'azda is a fine dancer in the Elsweyr style, where dances are not the slow, ritualised partnering of the Altmer, but instead are a whirling piece of performance art, with the dancer's emotions informing the dance more than any practiced steps. Do'azda can feel the music in her bones, and can dance to only a drumbeat.
[] Butterfly Lion
Do'azda likes butterflies. Beautiful, delicate creatures. She collects them, carefully usually, with a net. Other bugs, too, are pretty. But butterflies, butterflies most of all.
[] In the shadow of the moon
Do'azda was blessed even as she began her journey to become a shaman. A priestess of Azurah, the Mistress of Dusk and Dawn, favoured daughter of Fadomai, received a vision. Azurah's light shines favourable upon her.
[] The Five Finger Dance
Baan Dar, the Bandit God of Khajiit, the patron of resistance to the Thalmor and Imperials both, has taken an interest in Do'azda. He loves her, and walks ever in her shadow, or so said one of the few of her village lucky enough to pass into the Five Finger Dance.
[] Taste Cat
Do'azda likes very sweet things. And very spicy things. And very bitter things. She loves extreme and odd flavors, and so her diet is utterly bizarre by the standards of Elsweyr, let alone Skyrim where everyone eats potatoes and burnt meat.
Appearance Details
Fur Colour:
Examples:
[] Tan fur with black stripes, most distinct on her muzzle and face.
[] Pale, silvery fur with a few darker highlights - down her spine, at the tip of her tail, up through her forehead
[] Brown fur with spots, akin to a leopard.
[] Rich orange fur, no other markings; paler around the muzzle.
[] Dark brown fur, with both white and dark stripes.
[] Write in (Subject to veto, stick roughly to canonical colourations)
Hair Style (Choose Color as well as a sub-vote, subject to veto)
[] No hair, just fur up there.
[] Bangled braids of hair with rings in them.
[] Rough, wild hair.
[] Unbangled cornrows down to the neck.
[] Tufts of hair in a mess.
[] Single braid of hair from a little bit on top, trailing down the neck.
[] Write-in. Subject to veto.
Eye Colour:
[] Yellow eyes
[] Pale silvery-blue eyes
[] Orange eyes
[] Green eyes
[] Dark eyes
[] Hazel eyes
Scars:
[] No scars
[] Three parallel scratches across her muzzle, from a fight as a kit.
[] A deep, ragged scar over one eye; she is lucky to have retained sight on this side.
[] A piece of her left ear is missing, torn off in years past.
[] Write in, subject to veto
Accessories:
[] None notable
[] Earrings
-[] Left ear
-[] Right ear
-[] Both
[] Hair ribbons
-[]Colour
[] Face paint
-[]Describe it
[] Write in, subject to veto
*****
vM AN: @The Laurent wrote the bulk of this one, I just helped with the options. Hope everyone is enjoying this 100% faithful port of Skyrim to SV so far!
TL AN: This is another case where plan votes are very important!
She is supposed to be a Shaman of her people. Dignity is key, and fear is meant to be a tool that she will first learn to banish, and then one day learn to use against the enemies of the Khajiit and the community. The spirits and beings of the world know fear, and know how to use it. But she is afraid: she's young and uncertain.
"Who… are you?"
"D-do'azda K-kihrmnin." She curses her stumbling tongue.
"You with one of the trade caravans, Khajiit? Your kind always seems to find trouble. Captain, what should we do, D-do'azda K-khrminn is not on the list?" the man says, accusingly, looking at her as if it is her fault
The proud Imperial Captain sniffs, shaking her head. "Forget the list, the Skooma smuggler goes to the block."
"By your orders, captain," the list-maker said, and then added. "We will make sure your remains are returned to Elsweyr."
It is better than being buried in cold, hard ground, but she wants to shake him. The Captain has not given any reason beyond bloodlust to want a Khajiit dead. She's a Shaman, and of all the people to join the Stormcloaks, surely her and the rest of a Khajiit caravan would be the last to be suspected?
Her tail swishes, angrily, even as she keeps an even, blank look on her face. She is not tall, compared to these Men, and no doubt even her anger would be seen more as amusing than alarming.
She needs to have dignity: when a Shaman and other Khajiit are to be executed, the Shaman is to either die first or last among them. She either provides a guide into the void or a blessing as they pass. There are even stories of notable Shamans serving as the last priests to a line of prisoners before--without flinching and with the greatest heroism--laying their own heads down on the block.
Do'azda Khirmnin is a well-taught Shaman, but in these moments the formulas and rituals flee and flee quickly. Shamans are as common if not more so than priests, and if anything even more trusted. Priests answer far more directly to the Governor in the Palace of the Mane.
"Forward," the Captain says, and most of the prisoners step forward.
General Tullius has gotten off his high horse, and stands now before Ulfric Stormcloak. The wind whips through the plaza. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgan call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use the Thu'um to murder his King and usurp his throne."
Ulfric simply glares, as Tullius continues his speech, voice carrying as if he has given a hundred such speeches. "You started this war, you have plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Legion is going to put you down and restore the peace."
There are shouts of approval and boos and hisses, and not just from the Stormcloak soldiers.
"Skyrim will have peace and prosperity under High King Elisif or any other rightfully elected Jarl, and with the aid and friendship of the Empire. The Empire--"
"Get on with it!" an angry, blonde Stormcloak yells from the docks.
"Very well," Tullius said. "Begin with him. Ulfric is to be neither first nor last."
"Very well," the Captain says, looking over. There is a priest standing in front of the block, an executioner at the ready, and a half-dozen Nords who look like garrison soldiers, ready to take away the bodies.
The Empire likes its lists, the Stormcloak that rode with her says: they also like their orderly affairs, and so there's a brief fluster as everyone tries to work out who dies first.
"Sven Svendson," the Imperial list-keeper calls, and the angry blond man is driven forward to face the axe.
"Give him his last rites," the Captain demands, and the female priest raises her hands, clad in voluminous robes and half obscured.
"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Nine Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved..."
Do'azda tunes it out, and tries to think of what to do. But there's no way to escape: she saw what trying to escape would get, and she's not nearly as nimble as the thief is. Was.
Her ears twitch in dismay, and finally the headsmen ends it after a last defiant set of words by the Stormcloak (("My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?") A single swing, and Sven is in Sovngarde.
"Next, one of the cats," the Captain said. "Av'rit Dew-Claw."
A young Khajiit of Cathay extraction stumbles forward. He's handsome, in the way all healthy young cats are, with golden-brown fur and a single piercing in one ear, which jangles just slightly. He's a follower of Khenarthi, then, or at least a minor devotee. Her winds blow hard, and the bell jingles just slightly as he makes his way to the block.
He has to stand, because one of the garrison soldiers, a Nord with brown hair, is saying a quick prayer to the dead while hauling Sven away.
"Hurry it up, Hadvar," one of his compatriots said.
But this gives her time, and she musters her strength and will and speaks out. She has techniques to make her own voice heard, and she knows that there is nothing else the Imperials can do. They're going to kill her anyways, along with the Altmer, along with the other Khajiit, and along with the only death that anyone in the halls of the great and powerful will ever know and care about: Ulfric Stormcloak.
"May Magrus shine down upon you, and light your way, may Namiira notice you not, may Khenarthi take you to Llesw'er in peace and safety," Do'azda Khirmnin says, intoning the voice in the old language, the words as well-worn as a dance with a close friend. Av'rit's tail stills, his ears cease their nervous flicker, and she sees him centre himself at her words.
Hadvar startles. "Is she a priest? Should we… should she say the blessings for the other Khajiit?" He raises his voice, and Do'azda notices the eyes of everyone upon her. For a moment she hopes: it is cold comfort, but she wants to do at least one duty. She let down Rajhin, her familiar, let him die (temporarily, but die all the same) for her, and she has proven no sort of Shaman at all. But she can do this: say the words, mean them, and hope that she will be judged a True Cat.
"Quiet, Legionnaire!" the Captain barks.
General Tullius, though, considers it for a long moment. "No, it would take too long to say both rites, Legionnaire."
Hadvar accepts this with at least enough grace not to protest any longer, as the priest says another blessing, as if the one just spoken is not enough. Just as the headsman prepares to bring down the axe, there is a distant roar.
"What was that?" A man asked.
"Nothing, get on with it," the Captain says. The headsman swings, and hopefully a soul flies off towards Llesw'er. Hadvar, the respectful garrison soldier, handles the body with unnecessary care: Khajiit understand that the body is just a vessel. "Next, the chatty cat." She looks at Do'azda with undisguised malice. She blames Do'azda, and her glare is fierce and affronted, as if the Khajiit is a monster for saying a blessing.
There are hisses from all the Khajiit, and yells. But the Imperial guards apply club and fist if they need to, vicious and unworried about the bruises on those soon to be dead. The block is now slick with blood, and when she gets closer she can smell it. It's a powerful smell.
"Do'azda would a… ask to be killed last, that she might tend to the death words of her fellow Khajiit," she protests, in her best Tamrielic. She has learned much of it, but not enough to keep from feeling awkward when she speaks.
"Head on the block, cat," the Captain says, dismissively.
She knees down, and lowers her head to touch where blood has only just been cleared. It is sticky and it stinks. She wants to close her eyes. She keeps them open and stares ahead at the tower.
There is another roar, far off. Some animal? Or is it the crowd?
Some are whispering, some are laughing or speculating, and it all blurs together into its own sort of roar. Is she just imagining the sound? It calls to her in some way she cannot describe.
End of the line, Khajiit, but before we go… tell me a little bit more:
Traits (Choose 3)
Traits are small things, usually not particularly mechanically important. They're being a little taller than average, having a set of wicked scars, an enjoyment of fine Elvish wine or rough Orcish rotgut, or a real skill at cards. Little things. But they add up.
[] Aren't you a little...
-[] Tall for a Suthay-raht
-[] Short for a Suthay-raht
Do'azda is notably distinct from other Suthay-raht, for her height is unusual for Khajiit of this extraction
[] Don't put weight on it
When Do'azda was only a kitten, she climbed one of the great trees of the Elsweyr jungles. She climbed and climbed, high enough almost to reach Khenarthi's domain, when the branch beneath her foot gave way with a stomach-churning crack.
The break in her hindleg never quite healed perfectly, and in times of stress, she has been known to limp.
[] Like the wind
No cat on two paws can outpace Do'azda. She is a shaman, and not given to boast, but it is true, and has been since she was a kitten. Were she so inclined, she could've made a comfortable life for herself as a courier, for some merchant or another.
[] The life of a party.
While a Shaman and thus given to serious pursuits, she knows how to hold her whiskey, wine, beer and more, and has been able to give as good as she is given when it comes to carousing. It gives her no special social acumen, but it's enjoyable at least.
[] Lightweight
It doesn't cost much for Do'azda to get drunk. A glass of wine or two and she was flushed and incredibly tipsy. She's not much of a head for alcohol, but she still partakes sometimes, and it can be its own kind of fun.
[] Abstentious
Alcohol blurs the senses, like skooma but less so. All the same, Do'azda will not touch the stuff, preferring to keep her wits. If it fails to endear her to some? So be it.
[] Read 'Em And Weep
Do'azda is surprisingly good at card games and games of chance. While this luck doesn't seem to intrude on other areas of her life, if you put a set of cards in front of her and halfway explain a game, she knows how to read the cards and figure out how to win.
[] Cards On The Table
She has terrible luck… maybe in life considering where she is now, but especially at cards and dice. If she rolls a dice, it might as well be cursed for all that it obeys her will, and even decent bets and good cards are not enough to save her.
[] A Romance Or Three
She appreciates a good romance. Also an okay romance. She will also make do with a bad romance. She just loves romance novels--and adventure novels, but less so--and goes through them at an alarming rate in Elsweyr. Does it teach her something about Nord society that she's read several different stories about Strapping Nord Warriors and the men and women and others they court? No, not really. But it's good fun.
[] Sing a song.
Do'azda has a good singing voice, and an enjoyment for the kinds of songs that are sung in public: of adventure, of battle, of daring thievery and cunning heroism against evil oppressors. (Not all songs are subtle in their view of the Thalmor.) She knows them all, and can sing them by heart.
[] They say it kills cats
Do'azda has few restraints on her inquisitive nature, asking whatever questions occur to her, paying little attention to whether this may be considered rude. Whatever else, at least Do'azda never finds herself regretting her failure to ask about something.
[] Dancing the night away
Do'azda is a fine dancer in the Elsweyr style, where dances are not the slow, ritualised partnering of the Altmer, but instead are a whirling piece of performance art, with the dancer's emotions informing the dance more than any practiced steps. Do'azda can feel the music in her bones, and can dance to only a drumbeat.
[] Butterfly Lion
Do'azda likes butterflies. Beautiful, delicate creatures. She collects them, carefully usually, with a net. Other bugs, too, are pretty. But butterflies, butterflies most of all.
[] In the shadow of the moon
Do'azda was blessed even as she began her journey to become a shaman. A priestess of Azurah, the Mistress of Dusk and Dawn, favoured daughter of Fadomai, received a vision. Azurah's light shines favourable upon her.
[] The Five Finger Dance
Baan Dar, the Bandit God of Khajiit, the patron of resistance to the Thalmor and Imperials both, has taken an interest in Do'azda. He loves her, and walks ever in her shadow, or so said one of the few of her village lucky enough to pass into the Five Finger Dance.
[] Taste Cat
Do'azda likes very sweet things. And very spicy things. And very bitter things. She loves extreme and odd flavors, and so her diet is utterly bizarre by the standards of Elsweyr, let alone Skyrim where everyone eats potatoes and burnt meat.
Appearance Details
Fur Colour:
Examples:
[] Tan fur with black stripes, most distinct on her muzzle and face.
[] Pale, silvery fur with a few darker highlights - down her spine, at the tip of her tail, up through her forehead
[] Brown fur with spots, akin to a leopard.
[] Rich orange fur, no other markings; paler around the muzzle.
[] Dark brown fur, with both white and dark stripes.
[] Write in (Subject to veto, stick roughly to canonical colourations)
Hair Style (Choose Color as well as a sub-vote, subject to veto)
[] No hair, just fur up there.
[] Bangled braids of hair with rings in them.
[] Rough, wild hair.
[] Unbangled cornrows down to the neck.
[] Tufts of hair in a mess.
[] Single braid of hair from a little bit on top, trailing down the neck.
[] Write-in. Subject to veto.
Eye Colour:
[] Yellow eyes
[] Pale silvery-blue eyes
[] Orange eyes
[] Green eyes
[] Dark eyes
[] Hazel eyes
Scars:
[] No scars
[] Three parallel scratches across her muzzle, from a fight as a kit.
[] A deep, ragged scar over one eye; she is lucky to have retained sight on this side.
[] A piece of her left ear is missing, torn off in years past.
[] Write in, subject to veto
Accessories:
[] None notable
[] Earrings
-[] Left ear
-[] Right ear
-[] Both
[] Hair ribbons
-[]Colour
[] Face paint
-[]Describe it
[] Write in, subject to veto
*****
vM AN: @The Laurent wrote the bulk of this one, I just helped with the options. Hope everyone is enjoying this 100% faithful port of Skyrim to SV so far!
TL AN: This is another case where plan votes are very important!
Last edited:
Escape
- Location
- United Kingdom
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Escape
Do'azda's nostrils fill with the scent of blood, rust and rot in the morning sun, and she has to fight to keep from vomiting. The world seems suddenly too close and too far all at once. The crowd fades to nothing, an incohesive blur at the edge of her vision, but she can hear the headsman's breath as he belabours under the weight of his axe, General Tullius trying to calm his horse, the priestess blessing her soul to gods she doesn't believe in. Time slows. The headsman towers above her, ten feet tall, a hundred feet tall, a thousand. The scent of human sweat, trapped in his leathers and furs, is pungent enough to cut across the blood, and Do'azda wrinkles her nose.
Behind him, the keep at Helgan's heart stands taller still, vast and uncaring stonework. He sets his legs apart, raising his axe. It is an ugly weapon, a blade of iron sharpened until it gleams, upon a haft grimy with lack of care. The executioner, it seems, has only so much pride in his tools.
Something black and malevolent sweeps across her vision. Some great bat, like the monstrosities in Morrowind?
"What in Oblivion is that?!"
Whatever it is, it has swept out of her sight. Even as the rest of the imperials are distracted searching for it, even as the crowd begins to scatter, even as another prisoner makes a break for freedom, the headsman steps forward, axe raised. Do'azda can only watch, frozen by fear.
The beast lands on the keep, scattering stones the size of a man's torso as easily as a toddler kicks pebbles. It roars, a sound so high and so loud that the headsman staggers away, clutching his head.
Clouds gather, sweeping across the sky. Surely even in Skyrim, the weather does not change so fast?
Do'azda falls from the block, hitting the cobbled ground with a grunt.
"Hey, cat! Get up! Come on, the gods won't give us another chance!"
She looks up, bleary from the impact, into the smiling face of the stormcloak from the cart. Of course.
The courtyard is something from Merrunz's realm, collapsing towers, scattered corpses and fire falling from the heavens. Do'azda shudders as she follows the stormcloak, scurrying across the courtyard like mice fleeing a cat.
The tower is full of stormcloaks, clustered around Ulfric himself.
"Jarl Ulfric! What is that thing? Could the legends be true?" Do'azda's guide asks. Another stormcloak busies himself removing the man's binds. Blood drips steadily down his wrist - the skin of his hands has been ripped off. He must've pulled his hands through his binds without untying them, so he could free the others. No one ever accused Ulfric Stormcloak's men of being squeamish.
"Legends don't burn down villages."" Ulfric speaks quietly, but by some intangible weight, his words carry across the room. "We need to get out of Helgan, now!"
"Up through the tower, to the walls! We can jump if we have to!" Ralof says, turning to Do'azda.
"What is going on," she says, less because she thinks that there's an answer to be had among these Stormcloaks, and more because the words have been threatening to burst from her mouth this whole time: she doesn't just mean the strange monster, she means everything that has happened, starting with the ambush. What is going on?
"I'm… sure Jarl Ulfric knows," Ralof says, turning to her. But even he seems briefly doubtful.
Ulfric seems distracted, troubled. Her ears can just barely pick up the muttered words. "Is that… Alduin?" He shakes his head, and says in a carrying voice, "We should escape through the sewers if at all possible. But if you can't, find your chance. You know where to meet up with me."
"Yes, my Jarl," Ralof said, and there were nods and salutes all around.
Ulfric turns towards her. He's only just barely not a prisoner, but he seems far taller now, his gaze piercing and strange. "Cat… Do'azda. We must speak later."
She startles, but she's not the only one. "Why?"
"I need to ask you about what you saw," Ulfric says, quietly, but with a voice full of some strange authority not quite a Jarl's. He sounds like a Shaman at the moment, strange as that comparison is.
The tower shakes under an impact, and it seems to jolt everyone into action all at once. Do'azda finds herself following a handful of Stormcloak soldiers up the stairs, Ralof and the Jarl somewhere behind them.
A stormcloak soldier stands on the second floor, peering through the arrow slit. "Hurry! It's coming this-"
Her warning is cut off as the wall explodes inwards. Shards of stone fill the room, and Do'azda recoils as one catches her, drawing a line of pain across her shin. The dragon's head almost fills the newly formed breach in the wall, and with a roar of "YOL" that Do'azda feels in her gut, bathes the room in flames. Those who survived the destruction of the wall scream as the fire consumes them.
The heat hits Do'azda like a wave, and she scrunches up her face, closing her eyes involuntarily.
When she opens them again, the stairs further up the tower have collapsed, and the room smells of charred flesh and burnt hair. She takes hesitant steps into the room, and peers through the breach. Black smoke rises from fires raging across the town, fires that no one is fighting. Civilians continue to battle to flee through the gates, whilst imperial soldiers take potshots at the dragon or try to flee themselves. All she can hear are screams of pain and terror, punctuated with an occasional hoarse yell from imperial officers and the crackling roar of the flames.
The roof of the building next to the tower has been shattered by meteors. A corpse sprawls across the revealed attic floor, the head crushed beneath a fallen rafter. Do'azda feels sick looking at it.
"The inn! Jump through the roof to the inn. If it's safe, we'll follow you through!" Ralof yells in her ear, pointing.
Do'azda hesitates for a moment, but no matter how bad the inn is, it cannot be worse than staying in the tower until the dragon's return.
Steeling herself, she leaps.
The floorboards, weakened by fire and impact, break under the impact, and Do'azda crashes through to the ground floor, hitting the stone floor with an oof of pain, the wind knocked out of her.
"Auri-el have mercy, are you alright, citizen?" Rumna, the altmer from Skywatch, stares at Do'azda with concern as Do'azda groans on the stonework. Rumna crawls out from beneath the table she has been hiding in, and her face fills Do'azda's vision. "I'm largely an alteration mage, but I have some small skill with restoration. Hold still."
Warmth fills Do'azda's body as the pain of hitting the floor ebbs away to nothing, and even the scratch across her shin seems to dull. Rumna smiles, looking satisfied.
"Nothing to it. Just Alteration but slower." Her credentials as an alteration mage thusly acknowledged, she stands, brushing herself off.
"Shall we be away? This has become decidedly less secure of a bolthole than it was before you came through the ceiling, citizen."
To the Thalmor, and many of the rest of the Aldmeri Union, "citizen" means "Khajiit", a stance codified following the Great War, a constant assertion that Elsweyr is of the Union, and always will be. Rumna likely doesn't even register that she is saying it. Do'azda's ears flick.
Rumna pulls her to her feet, and turns to go. "I was planning to wait for things to die down before I tried to escape, because where there's a lot of scared imperials, there's some damned fool screaming 'thalmor' at the first pointed ear they see, but with the ceiling out, I suppose I'll just find a low wall, levitate over it."
She opens the door onto the street, peering out. "You're welcome to come if you'd like, citizen."
"Have you levitated two people before? Do'azda does not want to fall?"
"It's not that hard. In theory." Her voice wavers minutely, but she rallies. "I healed you, didn't I?"
Do'azda says nothing as she follows the Altmer into the alleyway behind the inn. The refuse and detritus of the inn litters the alley, and the gurgling of water through the sewers is accompanied by a pungent smell, but it is untouched by the dragon, and for that, she is thankful.
It is not much of a respite, but it ends at the mouth of the alley all the same. The street is marred with craters from the meteors that continue to fall, and a woman's body lies in the centre of the street, blackened and smoking from the dragon's breath.
"You see the alleyway there? We'll have to rush for it, but the main streets aren't safe, citizen" Rumna says, resting a hand on Do'azda's back, "You go first, I'll follow!"
Do'azda goes, but before she can cross the street, picking her way through rubble, imperial soldiers fill it, swarming around the corner, with the General at the front, his horse gone, coming on at a jog.
"Get the townspeople to safety!" Tullius yells, pointing with his sword. "We are legionnaires! We have a duty to these people! See it through!"
Most of the legionnaires ignore his orders, fleeing like everyone else, but some stop, drawing bows to fire on the beast. Others are running into buildings, carrying the people to safety. The street, clear only a minute ago, rapidly fills with fleeing refugees,
"Hey, Khajiit! You're the priest, right?" An imperial soldier stops, looking at her. Behind him, she can see Rumna, alarm on her face as she backs away slowly into the alleyway. Do'azda recognises him - the respectful soldier of the garrison, Hadvar.
"Do'adza is no priest, she is-" she begins to say.
"I'm no Knight of the Nine, priest, your faith is your own." Hadvar says, interrupting. "I'll get you out of Helgan, just stay with me."
She opens her mouth, but they are already walking by the time she can think about what to say.
"We need to head towards the town centre. Everyone's headed out through the gates, and its making a hell of a crush. The General says some of us should go to the keep instead - there are caves under the keep, we should be safe there until the dragon leaves." He says over one shoulder.
Hadvar parts the crowd like he's done it every day of his life, and Do'azda trails in his wake. It is the work of moments to clear the crowd, and all the while, Do'azda kept her eyes to the sky, watching for the dragon. Not Alkhan, surely? It can't be. Jarl Ulfric must've been mistaken.
Hadvar stops when he sees a crying child, and kneels down for a moment, talking to her in a low voice, as if there isn't a dragon around. Do'azda understands immediately that soothing tone of voice: Hadvar seems too young to be a father, but if he isn't he has the voice for it, talking soft words whose exact content matters less than the tone.
If there is ever a time to split away from him, whether to go down to the sewers, go with Rumna, or even hare off on her own to try to find other Khajiit… it's now, when Hadvar's distracted and it could just be 'we got separated on the way.' Hadvar's nice, but he's still an Imperial soldier, so if she is going to leave it'd be best not to do it right in front of him.
So… what now?
[] Stick with Hadvar - he's kind enough, and the caves below the keep are likely safe enough, right?
[] Back to Rumna - she was willing enough to spend magic healing Do'azda, and levitating out of the town means avoiding the fleeing citizenry by the gates, surely?
[] Down through the sewers with Ulfric - she'll be safe from stormcloaks with Ulfric, at least. He seems to know something of the dragon, too?
[] Into the crowd, finding other Khajiit - Undoubtedly she's the safest with her own kind. Khajiit look out for each other, most especially shamans. She'll have to find them, and there's little and less she can learn from them now, after gods know how long on the road that brought them all here.
*****
VM AN: All good! A fair amount of distance covered, but here's the first real choice of the quest, so that's fun!
TL AN: This was all vet's show, except for a few segments in the middle where I helped out. But I think the voice flows pretty well between us, and so I hope you enjoyed!
Do'azda's nostrils fill with the scent of blood, rust and rot in the morning sun, and she has to fight to keep from vomiting. The world seems suddenly too close and too far all at once. The crowd fades to nothing, an incohesive blur at the edge of her vision, but she can hear the headsman's breath as he belabours under the weight of his axe, General Tullius trying to calm his horse, the priestess blessing her soul to gods she doesn't believe in. Time slows. The headsman towers above her, ten feet tall, a hundred feet tall, a thousand. The scent of human sweat, trapped in his leathers and furs, is pungent enough to cut across the blood, and Do'azda wrinkles her nose.
Behind him, the keep at Helgan's heart stands taller still, vast and uncaring stonework. He sets his legs apart, raising his axe. It is an ugly weapon, a blade of iron sharpened until it gleams, upon a haft grimy with lack of care. The executioner, it seems, has only so much pride in his tools.
Something black and malevolent sweeps across her vision. Some great bat, like the monstrosities in Morrowind?
"What in Oblivion is that?!"
Whatever it is, it has swept out of her sight. Even as the rest of the imperials are distracted searching for it, even as the crowd begins to scatter, even as another prisoner makes a break for freedom, the headsman steps forward, axe raised. Do'azda can only watch, frozen by fear.
The beast lands on the keep, scattering stones the size of a man's torso as easily as a toddler kicks pebbles. It roars, a sound so high and so loud that the headsman staggers away, clutching his head.
Clouds gather, sweeping across the sky. Surely even in Skyrim, the weather does not change so fast?
Do'azda falls from the block, hitting the cobbled ground with a grunt.
"Hey, cat! Get up! Come on, the gods won't give us another chance!"
She looks up, bleary from the impact, into the smiling face of the stormcloak from the cart. Of course.
The courtyard is something from Merrunz's realm, collapsing towers, scattered corpses and fire falling from the heavens. Do'azda shudders as she follows the stormcloak, scurrying across the courtyard like mice fleeing a cat.
The tower is full of stormcloaks, clustered around Ulfric himself.
"Jarl Ulfric! What is that thing? Could the legends be true?" Do'azda's guide asks. Another stormcloak busies himself removing the man's binds. Blood drips steadily down his wrist - the skin of his hands has been ripped off. He must've pulled his hands through his binds without untying them, so he could free the others. No one ever accused Ulfric Stormcloak's men of being squeamish.
"Legends don't burn down villages."" Ulfric speaks quietly, but by some intangible weight, his words carry across the room. "We need to get out of Helgan, now!"
"Up through the tower, to the walls! We can jump if we have to!" Ralof says, turning to Do'azda.
"What is going on," she says, less because she thinks that there's an answer to be had among these Stormcloaks, and more because the words have been threatening to burst from her mouth this whole time: she doesn't just mean the strange monster, she means everything that has happened, starting with the ambush. What is going on?
"I'm… sure Jarl Ulfric knows," Ralof says, turning to her. But even he seems briefly doubtful.
Ulfric seems distracted, troubled. Her ears can just barely pick up the muttered words. "Is that… Alduin?" He shakes his head, and says in a carrying voice, "We should escape through the sewers if at all possible. But if you can't, find your chance. You know where to meet up with me."
"Yes, my Jarl," Ralof said, and there were nods and salutes all around.
Ulfric turns towards her. He's only just barely not a prisoner, but he seems far taller now, his gaze piercing and strange. "Cat… Do'azda. We must speak later."
She startles, but she's not the only one. "Why?"
"I need to ask you about what you saw," Ulfric says, quietly, but with a voice full of some strange authority not quite a Jarl's. He sounds like a Shaman at the moment, strange as that comparison is.
The tower shakes under an impact, and it seems to jolt everyone into action all at once. Do'azda finds herself following a handful of Stormcloak soldiers up the stairs, Ralof and the Jarl somewhere behind them.
A stormcloak soldier stands on the second floor, peering through the arrow slit. "Hurry! It's coming this-"
Her warning is cut off as the wall explodes inwards. Shards of stone fill the room, and Do'azda recoils as one catches her, drawing a line of pain across her shin. The dragon's head almost fills the newly formed breach in the wall, and with a roar of "YOL" that Do'azda feels in her gut, bathes the room in flames. Those who survived the destruction of the wall scream as the fire consumes them.
The heat hits Do'azda like a wave, and she scrunches up her face, closing her eyes involuntarily.
When she opens them again, the stairs further up the tower have collapsed, and the room smells of charred flesh and burnt hair. She takes hesitant steps into the room, and peers through the breach. Black smoke rises from fires raging across the town, fires that no one is fighting. Civilians continue to battle to flee through the gates, whilst imperial soldiers take potshots at the dragon or try to flee themselves. All she can hear are screams of pain and terror, punctuated with an occasional hoarse yell from imperial officers and the crackling roar of the flames.
The roof of the building next to the tower has been shattered by meteors. A corpse sprawls across the revealed attic floor, the head crushed beneath a fallen rafter. Do'azda feels sick looking at it.
"The inn! Jump through the roof to the inn. If it's safe, we'll follow you through!" Ralof yells in her ear, pointing.
Do'azda hesitates for a moment, but no matter how bad the inn is, it cannot be worse than staying in the tower until the dragon's return.
Steeling herself, she leaps.
The floorboards, weakened by fire and impact, break under the impact, and Do'azda crashes through to the ground floor, hitting the stone floor with an oof of pain, the wind knocked out of her.
"Auri-el have mercy, are you alright, citizen?" Rumna, the altmer from Skywatch, stares at Do'azda with concern as Do'azda groans on the stonework. Rumna crawls out from beneath the table she has been hiding in, and her face fills Do'azda's vision. "I'm largely an alteration mage, but I have some small skill with restoration. Hold still."
Warmth fills Do'azda's body as the pain of hitting the floor ebbs away to nothing, and even the scratch across her shin seems to dull. Rumna smiles, looking satisfied.
"Nothing to it. Just Alteration but slower." Her credentials as an alteration mage thusly acknowledged, she stands, brushing herself off.
"Shall we be away? This has become decidedly less secure of a bolthole than it was before you came through the ceiling, citizen."
To the Thalmor, and many of the rest of the Aldmeri Union, "citizen" means "Khajiit", a stance codified following the Great War, a constant assertion that Elsweyr is of the Union, and always will be. Rumna likely doesn't even register that she is saying it. Do'azda's ears flick.
Rumna pulls her to her feet, and turns to go. "I was planning to wait for things to die down before I tried to escape, because where there's a lot of scared imperials, there's some damned fool screaming 'thalmor' at the first pointed ear they see, but with the ceiling out, I suppose I'll just find a low wall, levitate over it."
She opens the door onto the street, peering out. "You're welcome to come if you'd like, citizen."
"Have you levitated two people before? Do'azda does not want to fall?"
"It's not that hard. In theory." Her voice wavers minutely, but she rallies. "I healed you, didn't I?"
Do'azda says nothing as she follows the Altmer into the alleyway behind the inn. The refuse and detritus of the inn litters the alley, and the gurgling of water through the sewers is accompanied by a pungent smell, but it is untouched by the dragon, and for that, she is thankful.
It is not much of a respite, but it ends at the mouth of the alley all the same. The street is marred with craters from the meteors that continue to fall, and a woman's body lies in the centre of the street, blackened and smoking from the dragon's breath.
"You see the alleyway there? We'll have to rush for it, but the main streets aren't safe, citizen" Rumna says, resting a hand on Do'azda's back, "You go first, I'll follow!"
Do'azda goes, but before she can cross the street, picking her way through rubble, imperial soldiers fill it, swarming around the corner, with the General at the front, his horse gone, coming on at a jog.
"Get the townspeople to safety!" Tullius yells, pointing with his sword. "We are legionnaires! We have a duty to these people! See it through!"
Most of the legionnaires ignore his orders, fleeing like everyone else, but some stop, drawing bows to fire on the beast. Others are running into buildings, carrying the people to safety. The street, clear only a minute ago, rapidly fills with fleeing refugees,
"Hey, Khajiit! You're the priest, right?" An imperial soldier stops, looking at her. Behind him, she can see Rumna, alarm on her face as she backs away slowly into the alleyway. Do'azda recognises him - the respectful soldier of the garrison, Hadvar.
"Do'adza is no priest, she is-" she begins to say.
"I'm no Knight of the Nine, priest, your faith is your own." Hadvar says, interrupting. "I'll get you out of Helgan, just stay with me."
She opens her mouth, but they are already walking by the time she can think about what to say.
"We need to head towards the town centre. Everyone's headed out through the gates, and its making a hell of a crush. The General says some of us should go to the keep instead - there are caves under the keep, we should be safe there until the dragon leaves." He says over one shoulder.
Hadvar parts the crowd like he's done it every day of his life, and Do'azda trails in his wake. It is the work of moments to clear the crowd, and all the while, Do'azda kept her eyes to the sky, watching for the dragon. Not Alkhan, surely? It can't be. Jarl Ulfric must've been mistaken.
Hadvar stops when he sees a crying child, and kneels down for a moment, talking to her in a low voice, as if there isn't a dragon around. Do'azda understands immediately that soothing tone of voice: Hadvar seems too young to be a father, but if he isn't he has the voice for it, talking soft words whose exact content matters less than the tone.
If there is ever a time to split away from him, whether to go down to the sewers, go with Rumna, or even hare off on her own to try to find other Khajiit… it's now, when Hadvar's distracted and it could just be 'we got separated on the way.' Hadvar's nice, but he's still an Imperial soldier, so if she is going to leave it'd be best not to do it right in front of him.
So… what now?
[] Stick with Hadvar - he's kind enough, and the caves below the keep are likely safe enough, right?
[] Back to Rumna - she was willing enough to spend magic healing Do'azda, and levitating out of the town means avoiding the fleeing citizenry by the gates, surely?
[] Down through the sewers with Ulfric - she'll be safe from stormcloaks with Ulfric, at least. He seems to know something of the dragon, too?
[] Into the crowd, finding other Khajiit - Undoubtedly she's the safest with her own kind. Khajiit look out for each other, most especially shamans. She'll have to find them, and there's little and less she can learn from them now, after gods know how long on the road that brought them all here.
*****
VM AN: All good! A fair amount of distance covered, but here's the first real choice of the quest, so that's fun!
TL AN: This was all vet's show, except for a few segments in the middle where I helped out. But I think the voice flows pretty well between us, and so I hope you enjoyed!
Vote Closed - Into the Sewers with Ulfric Stormcloak
- Location
- United Kingdom
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Down The Drain
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Down The Drain
Do'azda has a lot of excuses lined up, but the truth is, she just wants to know. So she heads over towards where the sewers are. She can smell it as she gets close, the wooden grates that loosely covered the hole into the sewers already pulled open. Hopefully Hadvar is alright, she doesn't mean him any harm.
As soon as she reaches the sewers, she realizes that she should have asked to get her bonds cut. There's a ladder down, slippery looking and gleaming with what seems like just a lot of water, but she can't really use it. She glances down, and… ah. If she just angles a bit to the left, she'll fall into a stream of what looks like remarkably clear water. So, with nowhere to go but down, she leaps.
There's the feeling of falling, and then she splashes into the water, which is deep enough that she is briefly underwater. Any detritus must have been washed away, it's clear and cool.
She struggles towards the right side, where there's a narrow stone walkway. The sewers are comparatively small, the walls somewhat rounded and the path ahead and behind rather straightforward. She doesn't see Ulfric anywhere, but ahead there's a small depression in the walls that might be the start of another path. The sewer does not smell as bad as she thought it would - the water is clear, almost more a drain than a sewer - but that is not to say it smells good. Do'azda wrinkles her nose.
Do'azda shakes with water, miserable and wet: a wet cat is a miserable cat, and she tries to free her hands, but she can't quite manage it. The knot is a little too tight. Her clothing clings to her, soaked through all the way down to her breastband. When she steps towards the depression in the wall, she sees him.
Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm. Rebel.
"There you are," he says, quietly. "I know you would come. Khajiit know of Alduin, of Alkhan."
He knows more than most Nords. "It can't be Alkhan," she says, but it's more reflex than anything. Alkhan, first son of Akha.
"Why not? It is a dragon, you know it is," Ulfric said. "If so, it came for a reason. I know who it was not." Ulfric gestures. "We should get going, before the Imperials follow us. But did you notice any strange signs before He arrived?" Ulfric strides forward, a dagger in one hand. "It's clear that if that is Alduin, there is a reason for it."
"Do'azda thought it was a bat at first," she admits, as they stalk down the sewer walkway. The smell only gets worse the further in they get, as they get to the areas where the drainage all collected up. Up ahead is a turn, and if they keep on walking straight they'd fall into a vast pool of stagnant water that only sometimes drains off. Instead they turn around the corner as she keeps on talking in a low, hushed voice. "Then it got close enough. Too close."
"No other signs?" Ulfric asks. "Alduin is a thinking being, and a master of the Thu'um. If it is him, then he has a reason. Perhaps… the Dragonborn." He says the last words with something like surprise, like a scholar coming upon an unexpected answer in a tome they set aside as useless.
"The what?" Do'azda asks, as they round the corner and keep on going.
"He had to have been after me, then," Ulfric Stormcloak says, voice growing in confidence. "Which means… There are many things I have misunderstood about myself for decades. But it can be no coincidence that on the day of my execution, Alduin comes."
"Is he… an enemy of the Dragonborn?" Do'azda asks. "If so, Do'azda thinks that he would just let Dragonborn die."
Her grammar is breaking down a little in the face of her shivering misery and her confusion.
"You do not know how such a being would think, Shaman. It would not trust others to do its own dirty work," Ulfric says.
Which might be a fair conclusion. The Gods that Do'azda knows tend to do their own work, only sometimes sending servants when they could do it themselves. She shakes her damp head, still thinking she's following a madman, whether he's whatever a 'Dragonborn' is or not.
"Maybe. If you are a Dragonborn, then is Alkhan hunting you?" she asks, nervously. She looks up at the ceiling as if it's going to come crashing in, but the truth is that this could happen. As they walk onwards, she can hear sounds from up above. There's a metal grate just ahead, and Ulfric stops near it.
Above she can hear roars, and screams of terror, but Ulfric looks oddly calm. "Perhaps, but I can take care of myself."
"Did you really ask Do'azda down here just for the question about the dragon?" she asks, suspiciously. Her wet, sopping tail flicks outwards.
"In part. A Shaman has their own unique perspective."
"How did you know Do'azda was a Shaman?"
"I was in Elsweyr during the Great War. I think our two races are not so different: we both labor under the tyranny of an evil Empire and wish to reclaim our homeland for the ones it belongs to," Ulfric says grandly.
What is there to say to that? Do'azda's ears perk up as she hears the sounds of footsteps in the distance, and considers the fact that her hands are still tied and Ulfric Stormcloak is a peerless fighter. But a part of her still imagines dunking him into the water until he shows a little more sense.
"Ah, your bindings," Ulfric says, sounding surprised as he looks down at her hands. He approaches her with a knife he's just pulled out. Do'azda flinches, but soon enough he's sawn through the ropes.
It took him a while to realize, but at least her hands are free. She rubs them together. "Do'azda needs to change."
"Yes. You do. This is Skyrim. It isn't any place for wet clothes," he says, as they march forward. Her footwraps squelch unpleasantly as she walks, and she sighs.
There's not much to see in the sewers, just endless walls of grey stone, and then as they take another corner sharply, there's something odd. It looks as if the walls of the sewers have just been blown open. At the edges of the wall she can see burn marks that look like overloaded runes.
She freezes, peering inside what looks to be a very normal sort of cellar, stock full of crates, barrels, and boxes and with a set of stairs leading elsewhere.
"Aha," Ulfric says. "The illusion runes have burnt out. We saw this in the war." There is a brief pause, a moment of old trauma swiftly brushed aside as he continues. "Your people cast them over pit traps for Altmer soldiers."
Illusion runes. To cover an open wall. To a cellar.
"Smugglers?" she guesses, unwilling to address the Great War directly.
What things he must have seen, and how much older than he looks he has to have been to have seen it.
"Smugglers." Ulfric's voice now is dry and amused. "They never change. There's always ways through the sewers. We don't need to go in, but--"
It is at that very moment that the cellar's heavy trapdoor creaks open.
"Are you sure we need to check down here, ma'am? It's just a cellar," a deep male voice says.
"Get down there before I have to force you, Legionnaire!" A woman's voice, sharp and authoritative. Do'azda knows this voice.
"That one is the officer from the execution. Do'azda knows it." She says quietly, and Ulfric listens for a moment as she berates her men, then nods.
Do'azda turns to move on, but Ulfric's hand on her shoulder stops her. "The illusion runes are down. They'll fetch more imperials, come into the sewers, hunt us down."
"Do'azda does not think so. The General was ordering them to get civilians to safety." She whispers urgently, but Ulfric smiles crookedly.
"I've been fighting this war for years, girl. Imperials are like a dog with a bone. They won't stop worrying at it unless you give them a kick." He peers around the corner, and Do'azda, without thinking, does the same.
Five imperial soldiers are poking around the cellar; the captain, an imperial from Cyrodiil itself, two bretons, a man in the burnished steel armour of the Imperial Legion's heavy infantry and a woman in drab robes, frayed at the edges. The final two are both Nords in the brown leather of Imperial garrison troopers.
"Furs from Falkreath, brandy from Colovia… is this one of those Dwemer gizmos from Markarth?! Damned smuggler." One of the garrison troopers, the man, grumbles. "He's even got potions! Must've bribed the alchemist in the keep."
"We should've known Vilod was up to something. No one is that generous with their mead when imperial troopers come knocking if they have nothing to hide," the other replies. "Damned good mead, though. Fruity."
The Imperial Captain opens her mouth to shut them up, and Ulfric picks his moment, stepping out into the light of their torches.
"Is that the Jarl-"
That's as far as the captain gets before Ulfric opens his mouth, and shouts.
The words thrum in Do'azda's gut. If it is like anything, it is akin to the voice of a priest in the thrall of their God.
"FUS RO DAH"
Barrels shatter, Dwemer gizmos slam against the wall. Where even stout boxes break, so do bones. All the Imperials are thrown back like so many children's toys, some of their contortions as they're tossed against the wall or smashed into broken bottles of brandy, fatally unnatural.
In a moment, there is silence and the shattered remains of five lives. Three are obviously dead, while two others groan. The Imperial Captain seems the least harmed, having fallen into the pile of furs. It's saved her life for the moment, at least, but she's unconscious. There's also a man, one of the Bretons, who thrashes in something like death throes.
Do'azda has never seen so much violence in so little time, even when she saw a Master Battlemage fight an entire bandit camp. It's horrifying. Is this the Thu'um?
Ulfric takes a long, slow breath and says, "There. They're gone. Do'azda, you should take some of their clothes, and any armor or weaponry you want. I'll be taking at least a shield. Then we need to move on." His voice begins with a rasp, but he clears his throat and it passes.
"She's still alive," Do'azda said. "Can we really rob her?" Not that she isn't terrible, but it's one thing to loot the dead--they no longer need it, after all--and another to rob the living.
Ulfric Stormcloak walks over to where she lays, groaning. Then he grabs one of the imperial's swords, thrown from their body by the blast and carefully and casually slits her throat in a single quick flicking motion. "Now she's dead." He almost grins at her. "The Shout is the skill of the Greybeards, and the Dragonborn as well, who is said to be the most skilled of all at Thu'um. When I was with the Greybeards, they called me the greatest prodigy of the 4th Era. I left before I could learn more." He pauses, still looking over his handiwork. "I left to fight for the Empire, but if Alduin is any indication, perhaps I was wrong to do so."
Do'azda considers the broken bodies and at times bloodstained clothes before her, and then considers her own soaked clothing. Well, she'd better figure out what she wants to wear, and fast. More Imperials could be on the way soon, and while she's pretty sure that'll just mean more people murdered with Ulfric's voice… it'd be best to move on.
Do'azda is a small khajiit, and can carry only so much. She can take only two weapons, one if it is to be used with two hands. She can keep two daggers on her person in addition to whatever else she takes.
[] Daggers, there's a half-dozen daggers, though only one is made of good steel.
[] There's an axe laying around, designed to be used in one hand.
[] A mace lies next to a broken body, designed to be swung around by one hand to break bones if need be.
[] On the wall is a two-handed battleaxe, of the sort that figures prominently in Nord legends. It is not high quality, seeming more decorative than anything.
[] Next to the battle axe is a two handed sword, long and (comparatively) heavy.
[] There are a number of short iron gladiuses designed to be used as a weapon by Imperial Legionnaires
[] A longbow rests atop a chest in the corner, with a quiver of iron-tipped arrows leaning against it
Do'azda needs clothing. She'll of course just wear whatever undergarments are most available and least covered in blood, but beyond that she needs to figure out how she's armoring up!
Helmets
[] An Imperial light helmet, made of leather and designed to help soften glancing blows while weighing less than the heavy helm. While lighter, it's still not made for a Khajiit head.
[] Imperial heavy helmet, a heavy helm of iron designed to ward off more direct blows, but heavier on the head and not made for Khajiit ears.
[] The hood from the Mage's robes are much better on the ears, but offer essentially no protection at all. Robes this cheap help magical efforts some, but offer no enspelled protection. (Requires choosing Mage's Robes.)
[] Nothing, Do'azda's head will be fine as long as she doesn't let any weapons get too close to it.
Body
[] Imperial heavy armor. Heavy and bulky, at least for the unprepared, it offers unparalleled defense against attacks once one is used to it. Meant for mainline soldiers fighting direct battles. Somewhat interferes with magic, though Battlemages (of which Do'azda is not one) have ways around that.
[] Imperial light armor. The armor of skirmishers, scouts and garrisons, it's a lot easier to put on and restricts movement a lot less… but it's also quite certainly less protective.
[] Mage's Robes tend to have minor enchantments to make magic more effective… and tend to encourage one to think with magic rather than physical weapons, as they offer essentially no protection
[] Nothing, Do'azda will be faster if she just finds pants and a shirt and goes without any armor on her body.
Shield
[] Imperial Light Shield: A light kite shield primarily made of wood, it's most meant to block arrows and ward off indirect blows.
[] Imperial Heavy Shield. A heavier kite shield designed to stand up even against hard hammer blows and enemy charges.
[] No shield. Perhaps it's best to have a free hand, whether for more weapons or for magic.
Gloves.
[] Leather and hide gloves, good for keeping one's hands warm and fending off minor stuff, though not that good if someone actually tries to slice your hand off.
[] Gauntlets. Good for if someone attempts to attack your hands--or the hand holding a weapon--but clumsy and awkward at lockpicking and magic.
[] Mage's gloves. Delicate and easily torn, but helpful in making sure to hold a spell for longer than she can naturally do. Not great for holding weapons, though, the grip is a little funny.
[] Nothing. Do'azda cannot use her claws through gloves!
******
TL AN: "Behold! The awesome fires of God. The limitless power of pure creation itself. Look carefully. Observe how it is used for the same purpose a man might use an especially sharp rock."
VM AN: Read K6BD. I mean, uh… that Thu'um sure is smthg, huh? Jarl Ulfric: Definitely the Dragonborn.
Do'azda has a lot of excuses lined up, but the truth is, she just wants to know. So she heads over towards where the sewers are. She can smell it as she gets close, the wooden grates that loosely covered the hole into the sewers already pulled open. Hopefully Hadvar is alright, she doesn't mean him any harm.
As soon as she reaches the sewers, she realizes that she should have asked to get her bonds cut. There's a ladder down, slippery looking and gleaming with what seems like just a lot of water, but she can't really use it. She glances down, and… ah. If she just angles a bit to the left, she'll fall into a stream of what looks like remarkably clear water. So, with nowhere to go but down, she leaps.
There's the feeling of falling, and then she splashes into the water, which is deep enough that she is briefly underwater. Any detritus must have been washed away, it's clear and cool.
She struggles towards the right side, where there's a narrow stone walkway. The sewers are comparatively small, the walls somewhat rounded and the path ahead and behind rather straightforward. She doesn't see Ulfric anywhere, but ahead there's a small depression in the walls that might be the start of another path. The sewer does not smell as bad as she thought it would - the water is clear, almost more a drain than a sewer - but that is not to say it smells good. Do'azda wrinkles her nose.
Do'azda shakes with water, miserable and wet: a wet cat is a miserable cat, and she tries to free her hands, but she can't quite manage it. The knot is a little too tight. Her clothing clings to her, soaked through all the way down to her breastband. When she steps towards the depression in the wall, she sees him.
Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm. Rebel.
"There you are," he says, quietly. "I know you would come. Khajiit know of Alduin, of Alkhan."
He knows more than most Nords. "It can't be Alkhan," she says, but it's more reflex than anything. Alkhan, first son of Akha.
"Why not? It is a dragon, you know it is," Ulfric said. "If so, it came for a reason. I know who it was not." Ulfric gestures. "We should get going, before the Imperials follow us. But did you notice any strange signs before He arrived?" Ulfric strides forward, a dagger in one hand. "It's clear that if that is Alduin, there is a reason for it."
"Do'azda thought it was a bat at first," she admits, as they stalk down the sewer walkway. The smell only gets worse the further in they get, as they get to the areas where the drainage all collected up. Up ahead is a turn, and if they keep on walking straight they'd fall into a vast pool of stagnant water that only sometimes drains off. Instead they turn around the corner as she keeps on talking in a low, hushed voice. "Then it got close enough. Too close."
"No other signs?" Ulfric asks. "Alduin is a thinking being, and a master of the Thu'um. If it is him, then he has a reason. Perhaps… the Dragonborn." He says the last words with something like surprise, like a scholar coming upon an unexpected answer in a tome they set aside as useless.
"The what?" Do'azda asks, as they round the corner and keep on going.
"He had to have been after me, then," Ulfric Stormcloak says, voice growing in confidence. "Which means… There are many things I have misunderstood about myself for decades. But it can be no coincidence that on the day of my execution, Alduin comes."
"Is he… an enemy of the Dragonborn?" Do'azda asks. "If so, Do'azda thinks that he would just let Dragonborn die."
Her grammar is breaking down a little in the face of her shivering misery and her confusion.
"You do not know how such a being would think, Shaman. It would not trust others to do its own dirty work," Ulfric says.
Which might be a fair conclusion. The Gods that Do'azda knows tend to do their own work, only sometimes sending servants when they could do it themselves. She shakes her damp head, still thinking she's following a madman, whether he's whatever a 'Dragonborn' is or not.
"Maybe. If you are a Dragonborn, then is Alkhan hunting you?" she asks, nervously. She looks up at the ceiling as if it's going to come crashing in, but the truth is that this could happen. As they walk onwards, she can hear sounds from up above. There's a metal grate just ahead, and Ulfric stops near it.
Above she can hear roars, and screams of terror, but Ulfric looks oddly calm. "Perhaps, but I can take care of myself."
"Did you really ask Do'azda down here just for the question about the dragon?" she asks, suspiciously. Her wet, sopping tail flicks outwards.
"In part. A Shaman has their own unique perspective."
"How did you know Do'azda was a Shaman?"
"I was in Elsweyr during the Great War. I think our two races are not so different: we both labor under the tyranny of an evil Empire and wish to reclaim our homeland for the ones it belongs to," Ulfric says grandly.
What is there to say to that? Do'azda's ears perk up as she hears the sounds of footsteps in the distance, and considers the fact that her hands are still tied and Ulfric Stormcloak is a peerless fighter. But a part of her still imagines dunking him into the water until he shows a little more sense.
"Ah, your bindings," Ulfric says, sounding surprised as he looks down at her hands. He approaches her with a knife he's just pulled out. Do'azda flinches, but soon enough he's sawn through the ropes.
It took him a while to realize, but at least her hands are free. She rubs them together. "Do'azda needs to change."
"Yes. You do. This is Skyrim. It isn't any place for wet clothes," he says, as they march forward. Her footwraps squelch unpleasantly as she walks, and she sighs.
There's not much to see in the sewers, just endless walls of grey stone, and then as they take another corner sharply, there's something odd. It looks as if the walls of the sewers have just been blown open. At the edges of the wall she can see burn marks that look like overloaded runes.
She freezes, peering inside what looks to be a very normal sort of cellar, stock full of crates, barrels, and boxes and with a set of stairs leading elsewhere.
"Aha," Ulfric says. "The illusion runes have burnt out. We saw this in the war." There is a brief pause, a moment of old trauma swiftly brushed aside as he continues. "Your people cast them over pit traps for Altmer soldiers."
Illusion runes. To cover an open wall. To a cellar.
"Smugglers?" she guesses, unwilling to address the Great War directly.
What things he must have seen, and how much older than he looks he has to have been to have seen it.
"Smugglers." Ulfric's voice now is dry and amused. "They never change. There's always ways through the sewers. We don't need to go in, but--"
It is at that very moment that the cellar's heavy trapdoor creaks open.
"Are you sure we need to check down here, ma'am? It's just a cellar," a deep male voice says.
"Get down there before I have to force you, Legionnaire!" A woman's voice, sharp and authoritative. Do'azda knows this voice.
"That one is the officer from the execution. Do'azda knows it." She says quietly, and Ulfric listens for a moment as she berates her men, then nods.
Do'azda turns to move on, but Ulfric's hand on her shoulder stops her. "The illusion runes are down. They'll fetch more imperials, come into the sewers, hunt us down."
"Do'azda does not think so. The General was ordering them to get civilians to safety." She whispers urgently, but Ulfric smiles crookedly.
"I've been fighting this war for years, girl. Imperials are like a dog with a bone. They won't stop worrying at it unless you give them a kick." He peers around the corner, and Do'azda, without thinking, does the same.
Five imperial soldiers are poking around the cellar; the captain, an imperial from Cyrodiil itself, two bretons, a man in the burnished steel armour of the Imperial Legion's heavy infantry and a woman in drab robes, frayed at the edges. The final two are both Nords in the brown leather of Imperial garrison troopers.
"Furs from Falkreath, brandy from Colovia… is this one of those Dwemer gizmos from Markarth?! Damned smuggler." One of the garrison troopers, the man, grumbles. "He's even got potions! Must've bribed the alchemist in the keep."
"We should've known Vilod was up to something. No one is that generous with their mead when imperial troopers come knocking if they have nothing to hide," the other replies. "Damned good mead, though. Fruity."
The Imperial Captain opens her mouth to shut them up, and Ulfric picks his moment, stepping out into the light of their torches.
"Is that the Jarl-"
That's as far as the captain gets before Ulfric opens his mouth, and shouts.
The words thrum in Do'azda's gut. If it is like anything, it is akin to the voice of a priest in the thrall of their God.
"FUS RO DAH"
Barrels shatter, Dwemer gizmos slam against the wall. Where even stout boxes break, so do bones. All the Imperials are thrown back like so many children's toys, some of their contortions as they're tossed against the wall or smashed into broken bottles of brandy, fatally unnatural.
In a moment, there is silence and the shattered remains of five lives. Three are obviously dead, while two others groan. The Imperial Captain seems the least harmed, having fallen into the pile of furs. It's saved her life for the moment, at least, but she's unconscious. There's also a man, one of the Bretons, who thrashes in something like death throes.
Do'azda has never seen so much violence in so little time, even when she saw a Master Battlemage fight an entire bandit camp. It's horrifying. Is this the Thu'um?
Ulfric takes a long, slow breath and says, "There. They're gone. Do'azda, you should take some of their clothes, and any armor or weaponry you want. I'll be taking at least a shield. Then we need to move on." His voice begins with a rasp, but he clears his throat and it passes.
"She's still alive," Do'azda said. "Can we really rob her?" Not that she isn't terrible, but it's one thing to loot the dead--they no longer need it, after all--and another to rob the living.
Ulfric Stormcloak walks over to where she lays, groaning. Then he grabs one of the imperial's swords, thrown from their body by the blast and carefully and casually slits her throat in a single quick flicking motion. "Now she's dead." He almost grins at her. "The Shout is the skill of the Greybeards, and the Dragonborn as well, who is said to be the most skilled of all at Thu'um. When I was with the Greybeards, they called me the greatest prodigy of the 4th Era. I left before I could learn more." He pauses, still looking over his handiwork. "I left to fight for the Empire, but if Alduin is any indication, perhaps I was wrong to do so."
Do'azda considers the broken bodies and at times bloodstained clothes before her, and then considers her own soaked clothing. Well, she'd better figure out what she wants to wear, and fast. More Imperials could be on the way soon, and while she's pretty sure that'll just mean more people murdered with Ulfric's voice… it'd be best to move on.
Do'azda is a small khajiit, and can carry only so much. She can take only two weapons, one if it is to be used with two hands. She can keep two daggers on her person in addition to whatever else she takes.
[] Daggers, there's a half-dozen daggers, though only one is made of good steel.
[] There's an axe laying around, designed to be used in one hand.
[] A mace lies next to a broken body, designed to be swung around by one hand to break bones if need be.
[] On the wall is a two-handed battleaxe, of the sort that figures prominently in Nord legends. It is not high quality, seeming more decorative than anything.
[] Next to the battle axe is a two handed sword, long and (comparatively) heavy.
[] There are a number of short iron gladiuses designed to be used as a weapon by Imperial Legionnaires
[] A longbow rests atop a chest in the corner, with a quiver of iron-tipped arrows leaning against it
Do'azda needs clothing. She'll of course just wear whatever undergarments are most available and least covered in blood, but beyond that she needs to figure out how she's armoring up!
Helmets
[] An Imperial light helmet, made of leather and designed to help soften glancing blows while weighing less than the heavy helm. While lighter, it's still not made for a Khajiit head.
[] Imperial heavy helmet, a heavy helm of iron designed to ward off more direct blows, but heavier on the head and not made for Khajiit ears.
[] The hood from the Mage's robes are much better on the ears, but offer essentially no protection at all. Robes this cheap help magical efforts some, but offer no enspelled protection. (Requires choosing Mage's Robes.)
[] Nothing, Do'azda's head will be fine as long as she doesn't let any weapons get too close to it.
Body
[] Imperial heavy armor. Heavy and bulky, at least for the unprepared, it offers unparalleled defense against attacks once one is used to it. Meant for mainline soldiers fighting direct battles. Somewhat interferes with magic, though Battlemages (of which Do'azda is not one) have ways around that.
[] Imperial light armor. The armor of skirmishers, scouts and garrisons, it's a lot easier to put on and restricts movement a lot less… but it's also quite certainly less protective.
[] Mage's Robes tend to have minor enchantments to make magic more effective… and tend to encourage one to think with magic rather than physical weapons, as they offer essentially no protection
[] Nothing, Do'azda will be faster if she just finds pants and a shirt and goes without any armor on her body.
Shield
[] Imperial Light Shield: A light kite shield primarily made of wood, it's most meant to block arrows and ward off indirect blows.
[] Imperial Heavy Shield. A heavier kite shield designed to stand up even against hard hammer blows and enemy charges.
[] No shield. Perhaps it's best to have a free hand, whether for more weapons or for magic.
Gloves.
[] Leather and hide gloves, good for keeping one's hands warm and fending off minor stuff, though not that good if someone actually tries to slice your hand off.
[] Gauntlets. Good for if someone attempts to attack your hands--or the hand holding a weapon--but clumsy and awkward at lockpicking and magic.
[] Mage's gloves. Delicate and easily torn, but helpful in making sure to hold a spell for longer than she can naturally do. Not great for holding weapons, though, the grip is a little funny.
[] Nothing. Do'azda cannot use her claws through gloves!
******
TL AN: "Behold! The awesome fires of God. The limitless power of pure creation itself. Look carefully. Observe how it is used for the same purpose a man might use an especially sharp rock."
VM AN: Read K6BD. I mean, uh… that Thu'um sure is smthg, huh? Jarl Ulfric: Definitely the Dragonborn.
Rats
- Location
- United Kingdom
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Rats
Do'azda takes the least bloodstained of the clothes, and the robes from the Breton woman's corpse, and changes quickly, her every motion a little jerky. Part of the way through, the smell of blood hits her nose and she freezes. She's not used to violence, at least not violence this close up, this immediate, and this overwhelming.
"Hurry it up, Do'azda. These won't be the only imperials coming down here. Grab some weapons, and we can keep moving." Ulfric says, buckling his new sword to his waist. He has strapped one of the heavy imperial shields to his left arm, and has begun to search for a way to proceed.
Do'azda stretches, luxuriating in clothes that are warm and dry. As she finishes tightening up the belt of her new robes, she feels a thrill of magic run through her. She considers the gloves, worn in by years of use, but disregards them. Her magic is not so powerful that she can trust she will not need her claws, or a weapon.
She takes less time to decide over the weapons. An iron dagger slips into an inner pocket as she tests the weight of the steel dagger in her left hand. Comforting.
An axe, too, she takes, attaching it to her belt. She tells herself it's for firewood, but she has a spell to conjure a woodsman's axe if she must. She takes the axe for the comforting weight on her hip, nothing more or less.
"Do'azda is ready. She wonders where we go from here?" She says. The cellar is solidly built, the same stonework as the rest of Helgan, and she can't see any way out.
"Back to the sewers. There'll be another passage," Ulfric replies, brushing past her. "We've wasted enough time already."
Do'azda tries not to bother him, hurrying as he is, but when next will she have such an opportunity? "Do'azda did not understand before. You can 'shout' because you are dragonborn? What does this mean?"
"The grandmaster told me that to be dragonborn was to have the soul of a dragon. To shout as the dragons did - with supreme arrogance," Ulfric says, looking over one shoulder to make sure Do'azda is paying attention. "For men, mer or beastfolk like yourself to shout, we must demand the world be as we wish it. When I shouted back there, I demanded that all before me be forced back, and you saw for yourself how effective it was."
She nods. "Do'azda has not seen such destructive magic before."
"For a dragon, it is not a matter of demanding." He seems to relish the chance to inform, again very like a shaman… but not. "To a dragon, the legends say, a shout is simply an assertion of what reality is. Alduin does not shout to make fire pour from his mouth, Alduin shouts to tell Nirn that fire does pour from his mouth. Dragons do not ask, nor even demand. Dragons simply are."
Do'azda looks up nervously at the top of the sewer as some dust trickles out, disturbed by the dragon above, and they lapse into silence.
The sewers have been relatively clean thus far, but as they walk, an undeniable smell has been building up. At first it was mild enough that it could have just been the stream itself, getting fouled to an increasing degree by the houses they pass, but as the stream moves from stonework to bare rockface, Do'azda peers into the darkness.
"A rockfall has blocked the stream. Do'azda can see it. Some time ago, she thinks."
The stream's water can pass through the fallen rocks, great boulders of the same stone as the rest of the town, but the sewage cannot. By the time they are close enough that Ulfric can see, the stench is so foul that both of them have a hand to their faces, eyes watering.
"Gods," Ulfric says. "Tremendous poor luck, but hopefully we can clear this fall, and-"
He does not get any further, as from within the sewage mound comes a small black creature. Another seems to wake from its spot, curled up atop the mound, and two more look up from drinking from the stream, beady eyes full of hate.
"Skeevers!" Ulfric shouts. His sword is already in hand before Do'azda can blink, as the skeevers approach.
Two of them attack him, clawed feet skittering on the slick rock floor. The others come for Do'azda, barring viciously sharp yellowed teeth, with repulsive brown slime in the cracks.
She lashes out with her right hand as one of them leaps for her face, catching its stomach. Claws bite, flesh tears, and the skeever hits the water, its belly torn open. Do'azda wants to throw up, but the other skeever snarls, the sound high and uncomfortably wet.
This one doesn't leap, instead lunging towards her leg, teeth bared. Do'azda pulls her leg away so it can't bite her, but its claws rake across her shin, and she hisses with pain.
She slashes blindly with her dagger, driving the skeever back, hissing its impotent fury.
Ulfric's sword stroke cleaves the creature almost in half, running across its back and catching only on its pelvis.
"Th-thank you." Do'azda manages, her eyes glued to the body of the last skeever. It steams faintly in the cool tunnel air.
"It doesn't help though. This is a dead end," Ulfric says bitterly, "The tunnel's completely blocked."
Do'azda tears her gaze from the stream, dyed red by the skeever's blood. The stream bubbles merrily through the rock.
"Do'azda does not think this stone is so thick," she says, "Listen. You can hear the waterfall on the other side."
Ulfric steps forwards, brows furrowed.
"I do believe you're right, Do'azda. Step back."
"FUS RO DAH"
The shout is no less devastating than the first, but Do'azda finds herself disappointed, for some intangible reason. The shout is complete, and she has no doubt Ulfric performed it well, but it lacks a certain finesse. An apprentice casting a spell learnt by rote.
The collapsed rocks, however, are not so critical of Ulfric's shout - they break apart from each other. The heavier boulders tilt slowly backwards, dropping down the other side with a series of jarring crashes. The lighter stones, however, are all but flung across the chamber beyond.
The water cascades down the rocks to the floor of the newly revealed cavern, and then onwards, disappearing into a passage of a similar size.
The cavern is surprisingly well-lit - a hole in the top of the cavern from some age-old cave-in lets a ray of sun illuminate the passage forwards - but most of the light comes from the two large braziers to the left.
An old and badly worn stone gateway demarcates a place where this cavern is met by an undercroft from some other part of the town. Do'azda suspects the Keep, based on the size of the gateway, the large iron braziers, the building style, evocative of the ramparts above, and, of course, the half dozen imperial soldiers who turn, blades and bows already drawn, to look at Do'azda and Ulfric, framed in the rubble of a cave-in, with the echoes of Ulfric's shout ringing out around the chamber.
Do'azda dives to one side as two or three arrows clatter off the rock, and she can just see Ulfric leaping down, his shield held high, already sporting an arrow protruding from its face.
Do'azda casts almost without thinking. Summoning Rajhin again will be almost impossible, so soon after he was shot down by the imperials, but she could conjure an animal, at the least.
Her hand swirls with a dark vortex as she reaches out.
Ever Hungry Hircine, release a creature from your hunting grounds.
She flares her hand as the spell releases.
In Elsweyr, the animal summoned would be a senche-cat, and so Do'azda gasps despite herself when a phantasmal wolf bursts forth instead.
Conjuring an animal pulls a spirit from the recently departed and binds it to the will of the conjurer. In Skyrim, that means wolves and bears - and a bear would be too powerful for Do'azda to bind.
The wolf bounds towards the imperials, in step with Ulfric Stormcloak, bowling an imperial over.
Before Do'azda can gather herself, the wolf has torn the throat from the fallen imperial, and is stalking another. Ulfric slays another with deceptive ease, and faces the final three.
"FO KR-Ahhh" Ulfric shouts. Do'azda feels an icy weight in her stomach, but it dissipates as the shout dies to a strangled whisper and Ulfric doubles over, coughing.
A blast of icy wind rips out of Ulfric's mouth, but it is brief. One of the three imperials slows, as though caught in treacle, ice crystals forming on his skin, before he collapses wordlessly into the stream, but the other two rush the incapacitated Jarl.
Do'azda tugs her hatchet free as she charges them. Ulfric is staggering backwards, the imperials advancing on him, swords raised.
She dodges inside the reach of the first, a breton with a scruffy beard, driving her axe into his stomach with all her strength.
The axe sticks, and she lets it drop with him as the other, an imperial of Cyrodiil, swipes his sword at her.
"Alain! No! Damned cat! Why die for the Stormcloak?" He looks distraught as Do'azda dodges backwards. The Breton groans from the floor, tugging forlornly on the axe, his lifesblood leaching into the stream.
The imperial's sword flashes again, and Do'azda darts to the side once more. Her legs tangle in her robes as she tries to dodge a third stroke, and she crashes to the floor, scrambling backwards in the gravel.
When he drives forwards again with his sword, Do'azda rolls to the side, and stabs up with her dagger.
It pins his lower jaw to his skull, and she swears she can feel the dagger pierce his palate. His eyes bug out as he slumps over her.
Ulfric pulls the body off her.
"Thank you. I am in your debt." His voice is a quiet rasp. "I should not… my training was never completed. I used a shout I have not mastered."
Do'azda isn't listening. The breton has died at last, as has the man Ulfric bathed in frost, and the man her wolf is now determinedly trying to eat, despite its wraithlike nature. The chamber smells of death; of voided bowels and exposed entrails.
She feels like she ought to be sick. She killed a man. Two men! But she mostly feels tremendously tired, and grateful she isn't dead. She feels halfway some Dwemer machine as she pulls her dagger from a man's skull, and her axe from another's belly, releasing a surge of dark, oozing venal blood. None of the imperials could be said to have died prettily. The first man Ulfric killed received a grisly slash across his face, whilst both men that faced the wolf lie half torn apart. She cannot muster even disgust, only a faint regret that this could not go a better way.
Her wolf fades away after a moment, which startles her almost as much as it startles Ulfric.
"We'd best be heading on, this can't be all of them." Ulfric says, his voice still crackling with uncharacteristic weakness.
The stream continues into the caves, and Do'azda refuses to look back as she follows Ulfric out.
They make it thirty paces or so before they find the body, a skeleton in iron armour, rusted to little more than orange stains on the ribs, sprawling halfway into a fissure in the rock. Ulfric barely spares it a glance, but Do'azda sees a bag of septims - like as not, grabbed from the dungeon itself as recompense. The septims fit comfortably into her pockets, and the skeleton won't miss them.
"Why did that shout hurt you so much?" Do'azda asks, once they have been walking for some distance. "You did not have such trouble with the other?"
For a moment, the look on Ulfric's face is ugly, but he smooths it over with practiced ease. "I mentioned I left the Greybeards before my training was complete? I was learning the Frost Breath spell - Fo Krah Diin. But I never finished, and I tried to shout with words I have only half learnt."
"Do'azda thought the Dragonborn was uniquely gifted in shouting?" She asks. Perhaps she has misunderstood his meaning?
Ulfric looks like a man who has bitten into his sweetroll and discovered it was sawdust.
"The stream is blocked," He says, in lieu of a response. "We'll have to take the passage we passed back there."
Do'azda considers apologising to the skeleton as she drags it out the way, but Ulfric wouldn't see the humour in it, so she refrains. The crevice is tight to begin with, and she thanks Azurah for making her a Suthay-raht - many of her kinsfolk would've struggled to fit. Indeed, Ulfric curses a storm as he forces his way through, and nurses his stomach where the rock dragged across it for some time afterwards.
It swiftly expands, however, a descending crack in the rock, until it opens up all of a sudden, into a larger chamber.
The stream has worked its way back out here, and there's a decidedly brisk breeze. Do'azda speeds up almost involuntarily. A breeze means an exit, and they're far enough from town that she's willing to risk the dragon to get out of the damned caves.
Ulfric's hand on her shoulder brings her short.
"Do'azda!" He hisses, "There's a bear."
Sure enough, a bear lies in a patch of sunlight, directly in Do'azda's path. From the rise and fall of its great chest, it's asleep. Ius smiles on Do'azda, for it has not woken.
"Come on, this way," Ulfric says, tugging her away, across the stream.
Do'azda trails behind him, casting a long look at the bear. She's sure she could have passed closer, or slain it, but this is safer, indisputably.
It is an odd moment of caution from a man who has been anything but cautious, or an odd moment of compassion from a man who has killed without hesitation.
When they were out of earshot, Ulfric turns around and says, quietly, "Sleep well brother," looking at the bear with a moment of intense tenderness before turning around. When he spoke again it is brisk and efficient. "We're almost there. The bear wouldn't sleep far from the cave mouth."
Sure enough, the cave only lasts a moment longer before bright noonday sun casts much of the cave in blinding contrast. Do'azda blinks repeatedly as her pupils narrow to slits.
Ulfric lets out a huff of relief, and Do'azda realises, in a stab of insight, that he had not known they would make it any more than her.
"And here we must part ways for a time," Ulfric says. "There is a Stormcloak rallying point that I will go to meet the others… but if you reach Riverwood, there are friends to the Stormcloaks. In fact…"
He fumbles around with a pouch at his hip for a moment, before bringing out a small leather token, brown and worn, with the sigil of a bear branded onto the side. "Look for this sigil, and you will find true sons and daughters of Skyrim."
Do'azda looks at the token for a long moment, and slips it into one of the pockets of her new robes. It can't hurt to have such a thing, surely?
"Do'azda thanks you," She says, "Where does she go to reach Riverwood? Do'azda has not been to Skyrim before."
"There are three standing stones on an outcropping by the lake. Follow the road from there and-" Ulfric cuts himself off. "I don't doubt the imperials have blockaded the road. You may be alright - they are looking for me and mine, after all, not Khajiit. But there is a mine, if not. Dug into the mountainside, it ought to be abandoned, and will take you from the standing stones to Riverwood without risking the road."
He leads Do'azda out of the cave, pointing out the stones. The snow crunches underfoot, birds chirp happily in the trees, and Do'azda listens carefully, but can hear nothing of the dragon. Nothing at all.
They've made it. She has survived the dragon attack. The weight of her actions hits her like a runaway cart. She killed someone. She killed several people. Why her, and not them?
Do'azda does not hear Ulfric's voice any more, as the gorge rises in her throat, but she swallows it down, leaving only an acrid burn in the back of her throat. She looks around dumbly, her eyes catching on the plume of black smoke rising behind her.
Ulfric pats her awkwardly on one shoulder, saying goodbyes that go unheard. Do'azda watches the smoke rise for some time. So many dead, and her alive.
She is forced to move eventually. How long she was, she would never be able to say. Do'azda knew she must go to Whiterun - her duty yet remains to her people, but exhaustion saps her strength, and Whiterun is no short trek. She'll have to pass through Riverwood first.
Skyrim is an unknown land, and Do'azda alone in it. How does she travel to Riverwood?
[] Along the main road. If the imperials have blockaded it, she will argue her way through. She wears robes, not prisoner's rags, and all Khajiit are the same to imperials. She hopes.
[] As Ulfric suggests, the mine will provide her a route past the imperials, directly to Riverwood. So soon after Helgan, the Imperials may not be willing to listen to reason, and the mine will be a safe route. But to go underground again so soon…
[] Cross the river, making her own way downstream to Riverwood. If she can ford the river, and does not encounter any wild animals, then this is simplicity itself. If.
Riverwood is not Whiterun. What does she plan to do upon her arrival?
[] Hunt for Ulfric's sigil carved somewhere. Privacy cannot be overrated, and this should offer a private and friendly place to rest a while.
[] Find the inn. Every town worthy of the name has an inn, and stopping there provides a safe way to rest up, to eat and drink without expectation, and to get her first real impression of the people of Whiterun Hold.
[] Push on. She has been soaked with water, fled a dragon and bloodied her weapons. Do'azda is exhausted, but she has a duty, and perhaps that is best served by forging ahead, trying to reach Whiterun before she rests.
VM AN: Combat! Do'azda does some fighting, some with magic and some with her shiny new weapons, I quite liked writing combat, let me know if it worked. Posted some Shout Lore too. Also, vote by plan, please.
TL AN: This was almost entirely vet's show! I think it turned out very well, especially the combat. Like, comment, and subscribe and all that!
Do'azda takes the least bloodstained of the clothes, and the robes from the Breton woman's corpse, and changes quickly, her every motion a little jerky. Part of the way through, the smell of blood hits her nose and she freezes. She's not used to violence, at least not violence this close up, this immediate, and this overwhelming.
"Hurry it up, Do'azda. These won't be the only imperials coming down here. Grab some weapons, and we can keep moving." Ulfric says, buckling his new sword to his waist. He has strapped one of the heavy imperial shields to his left arm, and has begun to search for a way to proceed.
Do'azda stretches, luxuriating in clothes that are warm and dry. As she finishes tightening up the belt of her new robes, she feels a thrill of magic run through her. She considers the gloves, worn in by years of use, but disregards them. Her magic is not so powerful that she can trust she will not need her claws, or a weapon.
She takes less time to decide over the weapons. An iron dagger slips into an inner pocket as she tests the weight of the steel dagger in her left hand. Comforting.
An axe, too, she takes, attaching it to her belt. She tells herself it's for firewood, but she has a spell to conjure a woodsman's axe if she must. She takes the axe for the comforting weight on her hip, nothing more or less.
"Do'azda is ready. She wonders where we go from here?" She says. The cellar is solidly built, the same stonework as the rest of Helgan, and she can't see any way out.
"Back to the sewers. There'll be another passage," Ulfric replies, brushing past her. "We've wasted enough time already."
Do'azda tries not to bother him, hurrying as he is, but when next will she have such an opportunity? "Do'azda did not understand before. You can 'shout' because you are dragonborn? What does this mean?"
"The grandmaster told me that to be dragonborn was to have the soul of a dragon. To shout as the dragons did - with supreme arrogance," Ulfric says, looking over one shoulder to make sure Do'azda is paying attention. "For men, mer or beastfolk like yourself to shout, we must demand the world be as we wish it. When I shouted back there, I demanded that all before me be forced back, and you saw for yourself how effective it was."
She nods. "Do'azda has not seen such destructive magic before."
"For a dragon, it is not a matter of demanding." He seems to relish the chance to inform, again very like a shaman… but not. "To a dragon, the legends say, a shout is simply an assertion of what reality is. Alduin does not shout to make fire pour from his mouth, Alduin shouts to tell Nirn that fire does pour from his mouth. Dragons do not ask, nor even demand. Dragons simply are."
Do'azda looks up nervously at the top of the sewer as some dust trickles out, disturbed by the dragon above, and they lapse into silence.
The sewers have been relatively clean thus far, but as they walk, an undeniable smell has been building up. At first it was mild enough that it could have just been the stream itself, getting fouled to an increasing degree by the houses they pass, but as the stream moves from stonework to bare rockface, Do'azda peers into the darkness.
"A rockfall has blocked the stream. Do'azda can see it. Some time ago, she thinks."
The stream's water can pass through the fallen rocks, great boulders of the same stone as the rest of the town, but the sewage cannot. By the time they are close enough that Ulfric can see, the stench is so foul that both of them have a hand to their faces, eyes watering.
"Gods," Ulfric says. "Tremendous poor luck, but hopefully we can clear this fall, and-"
He does not get any further, as from within the sewage mound comes a small black creature. Another seems to wake from its spot, curled up atop the mound, and two more look up from drinking from the stream, beady eyes full of hate.
"Skeevers!" Ulfric shouts. His sword is already in hand before Do'azda can blink, as the skeevers approach.
Two of them attack him, clawed feet skittering on the slick rock floor. The others come for Do'azda, barring viciously sharp yellowed teeth, with repulsive brown slime in the cracks.
She lashes out with her right hand as one of them leaps for her face, catching its stomach. Claws bite, flesh tears, and the skeever hits the water, its belly torn open. Do'azda wants to throw up, but the other skeever snarls, the sound high and uncomfortably wet.
This one doesn't leap, instead lunging towards her leg, teeth bared. Do'azda pulls her leg away so it can't bite her, but its claws rake across her shin, and she hisses with pain.
She slashes blindly with her dagger, driving the skeever back, hissing its impotent fury.
Ulfric's sword stroke cleaves the creature almost in half, running across its back and catching only on its pelvis.
"Th-thank you." Do'azda manages, her eyes glued to the body of the last skeever. It steams faintly in the cool tunnel air.
"It doesn't help though. This is a dead end," Ulfric says bitterly, "The tunnel's completely blocked."
Do'azda tears her gaze from the stream, dyed red by the skeever's blood. The stream bubbles merrily through the rock.
"Do'azda does not think this stone is so thick," she says, "Listen. You can hear the waterfall on the other side."
Ulfric steps forwards, brows furrowed.
"I do believe you're right, Do'azda. Step back."
"FUS RO DAH"
The shout is no less devastating than the first, but Do'azda finds herself disappointed, for some intangible reason. The shout is complete, and she has no doubt Ulfric performed it well, but it lacks a certain finesse. An apprentice casting a spell learnt by rote.
The collapsed rocks, however, are not so critical of Ulfric's shout - they break apart from each other. The heavier boulders tilt slowly backwards, dropping down the other side with a series of jarring crashes. The lighter stones, however, are all but flung across the chamber beyond.
The water cascades down the rocks to the floor of the newly revealed cavern, and then onwards, disappearing into a passage of a similar size.
The cavern is surprisingly well-lit - a hole in the top of the cavern from some age-old cave-in lets a ray of sun illuminate the passage forwards - but most of the light comes from the two large braziers to the left.
An old and badly worn stone gateway demarcates a place where this cavern is met by an undercroft from some other part of the town. Do'azda suspects the Keep, based on the size of the gateway, the large iron braziers, the building style, evocative of the ramparts above, and, of course, the half dozen imperial soldiers who turn, blades and bows already drawn, to look at Do'azda and Ulfric, framed in the rubble of a cave-in, with the echoes of Ulfric's shout ringing out around the chamber.
Do'azda dives to one side as two or three arrows clatter off the rock, and she can just see Ulfric leaping down, his shield held high, already sporting an arrow protruding from its face.
Do'azda casts almost without thinking. Summoning Rajhin again will be almost impossible, so soon after he was shot down by the imperials, but she could conjure an animal, at the least.
Her hand swirls with a dark vortex as she reaches out.
Ever Hungry Hircine, release a creature from your hunting grounds.
She flares her hand as the spell releases.
In Elsweyr, the animal summoned would be a senche-cat, and so Do'azda gasps despite herself when a phantasmal wolf bursts forth instead.
Conjuring an animal pulls a spirit from the recently departed and binds it to the will of the conjurer. In Skyrim, that means wolves and bears - and a bear would be too powerful for Do'azda to bind.
The wolf bounds towards the imperials, in step with Ulfric Stormcloak, bowling an imperial over.
Before Do'azda can gather herself, the wolf has torn the throat from the fallen imperial, and is stalking another. Ulfric slays another with deceptive ease, and faces the final three.
"FO KR-Ahhh" Ulfric shouts. Do'azda feels an icy weight in her stomach, but it dissipates as the shout dies to a strangled whisper and Ulfric doubles over, coughing.
A blast of icy wind rips out of Ulfric's mouth, but it is brief. One of the three imperials slows, as though caught in treacle, ice crystals forming on his skin, before he collapses wordlessly into the stream, but the other two rush the incapacitated Jarl.
Do'azda tugs her hatchet free as she charges them. Ulfric is staggering backwards, the imperials advancing on him, swords raised.
She dodges inside the reach of the first, a breton with a scruffy beard, driving her axe into his stomach with all her strength.
The axe sticks, and she lets it drop with him as the other, an imperial of Cyrodiil, swipes his sword at her.
"Alain! No! Damned cat! Why die for the Stormcloak?" He looks distraught as Do'azda dodges backwards. The Breton groans from the floor, tugging forlornly on the axe, his lifesblood leaching into the stream.
The imperial's sword flashes again, and Do'azda darts to the side once more. Her legs tangle in her robes as she tries to dodge a third stroke, and she crashes to the floor, scrambling backwards in the gravel.
When he drives forwards again with his sword, Do'azda rolls to the side, and stabs up with her dagger.
It pins his lower jaw to his skull, and she swears she can feel the dagger pierce his palate. His eyes bug out as he slumps over her.
Ulfric pulls the body off her.
"Thank you. I am in your debt." His voice is a quiet rasp. "I should not… my training was never completed. I used a shout I have not mastered."
Do'azda isn't listening. The breton has died at last, as has the man Ulfric bathed in frost, and the man her wolf is now determinedly trying to eat, despite its wraithlike nature. The chamber smells of death; of voided bowels and exposed entrails.
She feels like she ought to be sick. She killed a man. Two men! But she mostly feels tremendously tired, and grateful she isn't dead. She feels halfway some Dwemer machine as she pulls her dagger from a man's skull, and her axe from another's belly, releasing a surge of dark, oozing venal blood. None of the imperials could be said to have died prettily. The first man Ulfric killed received a grisly slash across his face, whilst both men that faced the wolf lie half torn apart. She cannot muster even disgust, only a faint regret that this could not go a better way.
Her wolf fades away after a moment, which startles her almost as much as it startles Ulfric.
"We'd best be heading on, this can't be all of them." Ulfric says, his voice still crackling with uncharacteristic weakness.
The stream continues into the caves, and Do'azda refuses to look back as she follows Ulfric out.
They make it thirty paces or so before they find the body, a skeleton in iron armour, rusted to little more than orange stains on the ribs, sprawling halfway into a fissure in the rock. Ulfric barely spares it a glance, but Do'azda sees a bag of septims - like as not, grabbed from the dungeon itself as recompense. The septims fit comfortably into her pockets, and the skeleton won't miss them.
"Why did that shout hurt you so much?" Do'azda asks, once they have been walking for some distance. "You did not have such trouble with the other?"
For a moment, the look on Ulfric's face is ugly, but he smooths it over with practiced ease. "I mentioned I left the Greybeards before my training was complete? I was learning the Frost Breath spell - Fo Krah Diin. But I never finished, and I tried to shout with words I have only half learnt."
"Do'azda thought the Dragonborn was uniquely gifted in shouting?" She asks. Perhaps she has misunderstood his meaning?
Ulfric looks like a man who has bitten into his sweetroll and discovered it was sawdust.
"The stream is blocked," He says, in lieu of a response. "We'll have to take the passage we passed back there."
Do'azda considers apologising to the skeleton as she drags it out the way, but Ulfric wouldn't see the humour in it, so she refrains. The crevice is tight to begin with, and she thanks Azurah for making her a Suthay-raht - many of her kinsfolk would've struggled to fit. Indeed, Ulfric curses a storm as he forces his way through, and nurses his stomach where the rock dragged across it for some time afterwards.
It swiftly expands, however, a descending crack in the rock, until it opens up all of a sudden, into a larger chamber.
The stream has worked its way back out here, and there's a decidedly brisk breeze. Do'azda speeds up almost involuntarily. A breeze means an exit, and they're far enough from town that she's willing to risk the dragon to get out of the damned caves.
Ulfric's hand on her shoulder brings her short.
"Do'azda!" He hisses, "There's a bear."
Sure enough, a bear lies in a patch of sunlight, directly in Do'azda's path. From the rise and fall of its great chest, it's asleep. Ius smiles on Do'azda, for it has not woken.
"Come on, this way," Ulfric says, tugging her away, across the stream.
Do'azda trails behind him, casting a long look at the bear. She's sure she could have passed closer, or slain it, but this is safer, indisputably.
It is an odd moment of caution from a man who has been anything but cautious, or an odd moment of compassion from a man who has killed without hesitation.
When they were out of earshot, Ulfric turns around and says, quietly, "Sleep well brother," looking at the bear with a moment of intense tenderness before turning around. When he spoke again it is brisk and efficient. "We're almost there. The bear wouldn't sleep far from the cave mouth."
Sure enough, the cave only lasts a moment longer before bright noonday sun casts much of the cave in blinding contrast. Do'azda blinks repeatedly as her pupils narrow to slits.
Ulfric lets out a huff of relief, and Do'azda realises, in a stab of insight, that he had not known they would make it any more than her.
"And here we must part ways for a time," Ulfric says. "There is a Stormcloak rallying point that I will go to meet the others… but if you reach Riverwood, there are friends to the Stormcloaks. In fact…"
He fumbles around with a pouch at his hip for a moment, before bringing out a small leather token, brown and worn, with the sigil of a bear branded onto the side. "Look for this sigil, and you will find true sons and daughters of Skyrim."
Do'azda looks at the token for a long moment, and slips it into one of the pockets of her new robes. It can't hurt to have such a thing, surely?
"Do'azda thanks you," She says, "Where does she go to reach Riverwood? Do'azda has not been to Skyrim before."
"There are three standing stones on an outcropping by the lake. Follow the road from there and-" Ulfric cuts himself off. "I don't doubt the imperials have blockaded the road. You may be alright - they are looking for me and mine, after all, not Khajiit. But there is a mine, if not. Dug into the mountainside, it ought to be abandoned, and will take you from the standing stones to Riverwood without risking the road."
He leads Do'azda out of the cave, pointing out the stones. The snow crunches underfoot, birds chirp happily in the trees, and Do'azda listens carefully, but can hear nothing of the dragon. Nothing at all.
They've made it. She has survived the dragon attack. The weight of her actions hits her like a runaway cart. She killed someone. She killed several people. Why her, and not them?
Do'azda does not hear Ulfric's voice any more, as the gorge rises in her throat, but she swallows it down, leaving only an acrid burn in the back of her throat. She looks around dumbly, her eyes catching on the plume of black smoke rising behind her.
Ulfric pats her awkwardly on one shoulder, saying goodbyes that go unheard. Do'azda watches the smoke rise for some time. So many dead, and her alive.
She is forced to move eventually. How long she was, she would never be able to say. Do'azda knew she must go to Whiterun - her duty yet remains to her people, but exhaustion saps her strength, and Whiterun is no short trek. She'll have to pass through Riverwood first.
Skyrim is an unknown land, and Do'azda alone in it. How does she travel to Riverwood?
[] Along the main road. If the imperials have blockaded it, she will argue her way through. She wears robes, not prisoner's rags, and all Khajiit are the same to imperials. She hopes.
[] As Ulfric suggests, the mine will provide her a route past the imperials, directly to Riverwood. So soon after Helgan, the Imperials may not be willing to listen to reason, and the mine will be a safe route. But to go underground again so soon…
[] Cross the river, making her own way downstream to Riverwood. If she can ford the river, and does not encounter any wild animals, then this is simplicity itself. If.
Riverwood is not Whiterun. What does she plan to do upon her arrival?
[] Hunt for Ulfric's sigil carved somewhere. Privacy cannot be overrated, and this should offer a private and friendly place to rest a while.
[] Find the inn. Every town worthy of the name has an inn, and stopping there provides a safe way to rest up, to eat and drink without expectation, and to get her first real impression of the people of Whiterun Hold.
[] Push on. She has been soaked with water, fled a dragon and bloodied her weapons. Do'azda is exhausted, but she has a duty, and perhaps that is best served by forging ahead, trying to reach Whiterun before she rests.
VM AN: Combat! Do'azda does some fighting, some with magic and some with her shiny new weapons, I quite liked writing combat, let me know if it worked. Posted some Shout Lore too. Also, vote by plan, please.
TL AN: This was almost entirely vet's show! I think it turned out very well, especially the combat. Like, comment, and subscribe and all that!
Free
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Free
Skyrim is not what Do'azda is used to. It's a little too coldly beautiful, and so she makes her way down a dirt path sometimes studded with stones. It's a lovely country, if you're dressed in thick furs, but the robes she's wearing are only a little bit insulated, and she has to imagine that Imperial Battlemages must not feel the cold as much. She makes her way carefully, ears swivelling at every sound. The animals in this area are far from tame, and so she only sees them at a distance, but they roam about over the region.
She tries not to disturb them, but they spook easy and even just walking down the path is enough to send them fleeing. Do travelers just kill them on sight? She doesn't know, but she keeps an ear out for their sounds anyways. If they're that given to panicking, then they should also tell her if there is anyone about.
She passes by a hill that seems like it could be a burial mound, and keeps up a steady pace. At least she's used to walking, but Do'azda is aware that she's in a bad position. She has magic, but no potions if she runs dry for the moment, and ambient magica and her body's own production won't be enough if she's going to have to keep on relying on conjuring things. And if there is an Imperial blockade, then there's no way that a few Conjuring tricks will be enough. She wishes she knew more magic, but she'll just have to do what she can.
...if only she could summon her familiar, then she could just ask him to go on ahead and scout out to see if there is a blockade.
Instead, she walks along the path, trying to hurry as much as she can without winding herself. It's a fine day despite the slight chill, and the air is clear and if she doesn't turn back around she can't even see the smoke from Helgen. She can't even smell it, thanks to the wind.
It is not even noon, and while Do'azda is hungry, she doesn't imagine with the deaths weighing heavy on her stomach that she could even really eat. So she walks onwards, keeping an eye out. It's almost two miles before she reaches towards the river and gets off the dirt path onto a cobblestone path.
The cobblestone path - it would be a road, were it not so steep - descends the hillside like a serpent, twisting this way and that. After perhaps twenty minutes of walking, Do'azda turns a corner and the vista before her takes her breath away. A lake, sparkling in the noonday sun. Salmon leap in the river it feeds, and a deer looks up from where it was drinking as she approaches, but it seems unafraid; given courage, perhaps, by the steep escarpment she would have to descend to reach it.
Before the lake, at the lip of the escarpment where the path is forced to turn, stand three stone monuments, unimaginably aged and weathered. Do'azda runs a hand gently against one. There was magic here once, but it is faint, faded. A thing of an age gone by.
For all its chill weather, civil strife and monsters reborn from legend, Skyrim is a place of beauty and history both, and Do'azda smiles. She had allowed herself to forget, for a time, why Khajiit came to this land. No more.
That's when the trouble starts.
Khajiit have good eyesight, and so she sees them before they see her, and is able to stop and turn around a little.
There's an Imperial blockade in the road by the river that marks the only way to Riverwood short of going through the mine which is perhaps somewhere around the other side of the river. She doesn't have a map, so she can only guess at the directions.
The Imperials are out in force, with something like forty or fifty Legionaries in front of the road, grandiose banners waving proudly, and with battlemages among their ranks.
Ulfric Stormcloak himself couldn't have fought through all of them on his own. So, she needs to either go through the mines or…
Okay. She needs to talk her way through. Her heart is racing, and she almost flees. But she can't imagine that there aren't scouts in the woods just next to the road. The Imperials are many things, but they aren't stupid. They've blockaded the area very well, and yet she doesn't know what to do about it.
Her tail swishes angrily. Whatever she does, she can't rely on the goodwill of the Imperials: telling the truth is not going to happen, not if she wants to live or at least not get detained again. But how does she lie to them, especially wearing mage robes as she is?
What to do?
[] The 'Silly Khajiit' routine. Don't give them anything to work with. Do'azda means no harm and she just blundered here… and if you need to find a moment to run away once you're part of the way through, do so.
[] Khajiit were well known as traders, even in Skyrim. Pretend to be a local Khajiit trader who'd traded out all the goods to far and sundry and was returning back towards Whiterun. There's a Khajiit community there, worst case she could hope they'd lie for a fellow Khajiit if anyone checked.
[] Perhaps an opposite tact should be used. If you were instead an outsider, a loyal Imperial citizen staying at Helgen on the way before… things went wrong, then perhaps they'd buy it: Do'azda name is on none of the lists, any more than any of the other Khajiit are.
[] Write-in.
******
TL AN: It's short, but welcome to our Social Combat tutorial!
VM AN: almost all Laur this time! Work absolutely kicking my butt right now, but I'm settling into the job, so we'll see!
Skyrim is not what Do'azda is used to. It's a little too coldly beautiful, and so she makes her way down a dirt path sometimes studded with stones. It's a lovely country, if you're dressed in thick furs, but the robes she's wearing are only a little bit insulated, and she has to imagine that Imperial Battlemages must not feel the cold as much. She makes her way carefully, ears swivelling at every sound. The animals in this area are far from tame, and so she only sees them at a distance, but they roam about over the region.
She tries not to disturb them, but they spook easy and even just walking down the path is enough to send them fleeing. Do travelers just kill them on sight? She doesn't know, but she keeps an ear out for their sounds anyways. If they're that given to panicking, then they should also tell her if there is anyone about.
She passes by a hill that seems like it could be a burial mound, and keeps up a steady pace. At least she's used to walking, but Do'azda is aware that she's in a bad position. She has magic, but no potions if she runs dry for the moment, and ambient magica and her body's own production won't be enough if she's going to have to keep on relying on conjuring things. And if there is an Imperial blockade, then there's no way that a few Conjuring tricks will be enough. She wishes she knew more magic, but she'll just have to do what she can.
...if only she could summon her familiar, then she could just ask him to go on ahead and scout out to see if there is a blockade.
Instead, she walks along the path, trying to hurry as much as she can without winding herself. It's a fine day despite the slight chill, and the air is clear and if she doesn't turn back around she can't even see the smoke from Helgen. She can't even smell it, thanks to the wind.
It is not even noon, and while Do'azda is hungry, she doesn't imagine with the deaths weighing heavy on her stomach that she could even really eat. So she walks onwards, keeping an eye out. It's almost two miles before she reaches towards the river and gets off the dirt path onto a cobblestone path.
The cobblestone path - it would be a road, were it not so steep - descends the hillside like a serpent, twisting this way and that. After perhaps twenty minutes of walking, Do'azda turns a corner and the vista before her takes her breath away. A lake, sparkling in the noonday sun. Salmon leap in the river it feeds, and a deer looks up from where it was drinking as she approaches, but it seems unafraid; given courage, perhaps, by the steep escarpment she would have to descend to reach it.
Before the lake, at the lip of the escarpment where the path is forced to turn, stand three stone monuments, unimaginably aged and weathered. Do'azda runs a hand gently against one. There was magic here once, but it is faint, faded. A thing of an age gone by.
For all its chill weather, civil strife and monsters reborn from legend, Skyrim is a place of beauty and history both, and Do'azda smiles. She had allowed herself to forget, for a time, why Khajiit came to this land. No more.
That's when the trouble starts.
Khajiit have good eyesight, and so she sees them before they see her, and is able to stop and turn around a little.
There's an Imperial blockade in the road by the river that marks the only way to Riverwood short of going through the mine which is perhaps somewhere around the other side of the river. She doesn't have a map, so she can only guess at the directions.
The Imperials are out in force, with something like forty or fifty Legionaries in front of the road, grandiose banners waving proudly, and with battlemages among their ranks.
Ulfric Stormcloak himself couldn't have fought through all of them on his own. So, she needs to either go through the mines or…
Okay. She needs to talk her way through. Her heart is racing, and she almost flees. But she can't imagine that there aren't scouts in the woods just next to the road. The Imperials are many things, but they aren't stupid. They've blockaded the area very well, and yet she doesn't know what to do about it.
Her tail swishes angrily. Whatever she does, she can't rely on the goodwill of the Imperials: telling the truth is not going to happen, not if she wants to live or at least not get detained again. But how does she lie to them, especially wearing mage robes as she is?
What to do?
[] The 'Silly Khajiit' routine. Don't give them anything to work with. Do'azda means no harm and she just blundered here… and if you need to find a moment to run away once you're part of the way through, do so.
[] Khajiit were well known as traders, even in Skyrim. Pretend to be a local Khajiit trader who'd traded out all the goods to far and sundry and was returning back towards Whiterun. There's a Khajiit community there, worst case she could hope they'd lie for a fellow Khajiit if anyone checked.
[] Perhaps an opposite tact should be used. If you were instead an outsider, a loyal Imperial citizen staying at Helgen on the way before… things went wrong, then perhaps they'd buy it: Do'azda name is on none of the lists, any more than any of the other Khajiit are.
[] Write-in.
******
TL AN: It's short, but welcome to our Social Combat tutorial!
VM AN: almost all Laur this time! Work absolutely kicking my butt right now, but I'm settling into the job, so we'll see!
Vote Closed
- Location
- United Kingdom
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Vote closed.
Winning vote: Perhaps an opposite tact should be used. If you were instead an outsider, a loyal Imperial citizen staying at Helgen on the way before… things went wrong, then perhaps they'd buy it: Do'azda name is on none of the lists, any more than any of the other Khajiit are.
Winning vote: Perhaps an opposite tact should be used. If you were instead an outsider, a loyal Imperial citizen staying at Helgen on the way before… things went wrong, then perhaps they'd buy it: Do'azda name is on none of the lists, any more than any of the other Khajiit are.