Young Writers Society

Welcome to the land of Tamriel. A land with filled with magic, dozens of cultures, legends, and histories. A land of beautiful grasslands, imposing mountain ranges, scorching deserts, lush jungles, and inhospitable wastelands. And a land no stranger to chaos.

The year is 4E 298, 97 years after the Last Dragonborn slayed the World Eater, saving Tamriel and Nirn from utter destruction. The civil war in the province of Skyrim had been ended in a stalemate, the two parties dividing the province and now living in peace. All over Tamriel people had thought they would finally be free from a threat on their existence, but they could never have foreseen the great evil among them.

They rose like a tidal wave during a storm, calling themselves the Revenant. Their ranks were filled with Orsimer (Orcs), the afflicted and ill, vampires, and beggars; all those outcast by society. They fought relentlessly, slaughtering villages and towns as fast as their numbers grew.

Within a fortnight, the Revenant had taken control of Morrowind, Skyrim, and a large portion of High Rock, Hammerfell and Cyrodiil. The few cities which withstood their first assault now lay surrounded by patient warriors, isolating them from the rest of Tamriel.

Many wondered what their goal was, but that soon became evident. They wished to sever the mortal world's to reality, and sink the world into the lowest realms of Oblivion. It also became clear that the Revenant were led by three of the lower Daedric Princes of Oblivion- Peryite, Malacath and Clavicus Vile.

They aim to destroy the Earth Bones, or the Towers as they are known in common folklore. Several of the Towers had been destroyed or made defunct millenia ago, but now the last few remaining Towers and their sources of Power are in danger.

To make matters worse, Clavicus Vile, who is also the Daedric Prince of deals and persuasion, persuaded the Aldmeri Dominion, the main hierarchical force of the High Elves, to join forces with the Revenant, in exchange for immense power. This led to an even more formidable army for the Revenant. No where will remain safe for long...



You all received a letter asking for your aid from my master, Carnigeir White, before he passed trying to defend the temple of High Hrothgar from the Revenant's forces. He didn't reveal what it is our quest should be in the letters, but he told me that you all have skills and talents which this party will require to succeed in thwarting the Revenant. That is why we all met here in Anvil, one of the few cities still untouched by the Revenant.

What is our mission you ask? Our mission is to protect the last five remaining Towers or their sources of Power from the Revenant, no matter the cost. These Towers are all that stand in the way of the Revenant and their goal. It may seem easy enough, but our road is filled with temptation, foes of immense power, and no small amount of peril. Will you have the courage to join me in the fight to save all mortal beings?



Leader/Scribe: Brother Silas Daritonus (@TheIllusiveIntellect)
Healer: Fairlonwe Kaether (@ReisePiecey)
Warrior 1: Brakmurtor Ukvar (@Steggy)
Warrior 2: Helios Iskander (@TheForgottenKing)
Warrior 3: Kimiru Khazi (@TheFantasy14)
Ranger 1: Irwain Nathwaenyl (@Basil)
Ranger 2: Smapt'e Yalle'en (@15253)
Mage 1: Thorkel Scar-Cloud (@AstralHunter)
Mage 2: Revan Allandi (@Poopsie)
Scout/Spy: Dar'Khove Pah S'ihi (@ReisePiecey)



There are dozens of races in Tamriel, but only ten who are truly noteworthy. You can be any of the following races.

Argonians:



Altmer (High Elves):



Bretons:



Bosmer (Wood Elves):



Cyrodils (Imperials)



Dunmer (Dark Elves):



Khajiiti:



Orsimer (Orcs):



Nords:



Yokudans (Redguards):





Please submit your CP according to the following template...

Code: Select all

[u][b]Name:[/b][/u]
[u][b]Age:[/b][/u]
[u][b]Gender:[/b][/u]
[u][b]Race:[/b][/u] (select one of the ten specified please)
[u][b]Slot to fill:[/b][/u]

[u][b]Appearance:[/b][/u] (you don't have to go too into detail. Also, please include apparel and equipment:)
[u][b]Personality:[/b][/u]
[u][b]Which of the 7 Deadly Sins are you most guilty of?:[/b][/u] (the character, not you as a person)
[u][b]Skills/Strengths:[/b][/u] (what would make you an asset to the party? Why were you chosen?)
[u][b]Weaknesses/Fears:[/b][/u]
[u][b]URL?:[/b][/u] (For those unfamiliar with this term, it essentially means: is your character open to intercharacter romantic relations?)

[u][b]Optional Question:[/b][/u] [i]If you had the power to control the minds of others to do almost anything, would you use it? And if so, why and to what end?[/i]


Are you willing to give up your life to save the realms of mortals from eternal destruction? Or will the Revenant or another force claim victory and damn us all? Only time will tell...

Silas Markus Daritonus

Silent Warfare

A harbour bell tolled outside as Silas closed his journal and rose from his oak desk in the corner. He walked over to the window, drawing his cloak closer around him as a cool ocean breeze rushed into his room. Outside, the city of Anvil was starting to wake, preparing to go about their lives without an ounce of concern for what’s happening outside the comforting marble walls of this ancient city.

The Legion has been doing a mighty fine job of keeping their common folk oblivious to the rest of Tamriel, Silas thought, [/i] but is it really such a sensible thing to be doing? [/i]

A knock at the door snapped Silas out of his thoughts, and he slowly made his way to the door, silently drawing his sword as a precautionary habit. The shadow in the doorway indicated a slim individual, most likely a woman or elfin, Khajiiti or Argonian male. Silas placed his ear to the door, listening intently for any movement of weapons or armour.

When he was satisfied that it was safe, he through his sword on the bed and opened the door to reveal a young Argonian boy standing there in sun-bleached breeches and a patched-up tunic. He had a yellowed note in his hand, which he in turn handed to the scholar before running off.

Silas walked over to his bed, opening the note as he sat down. He recognized the hasty handwriting as that of Iluso, the Redguard merchant he had commissioned to provide naval transport.

Mister Brother Daritonus
I hope this message gets to you swiftly, so as not to cause any confusion or friction between us. Although you have paid the deposit of six thousand septims in full, and you planned to set course before the new moon, I have to depart on an emergency supply transport for my home port of Sentinel.
The Empire has instructed all idle vessels not already participating in the supply train should immediately prepare to transport food and water to any cities besieged by the Revenant.
I have asked one of my fellow captains, an elderly man by the name of Godwin, to grant you safe naval transport. He is currently docked just inside port on his small caravel the Mudcrab’s Bride.

Silas cursed silently under his breath as he tossed the note onto his bed beside his sword. Iluso had been the captain of one of the fastest ships in Anvil, and had stayed out of this war to continue his flourishing trading business. He was also one of the few sailors brave enough to travel all the way to the Summerset Ilses.

Silas strapped his sword to his waist and made his way down to the harbour. The streets were already milling with citizens and traders, all cramped around stalls, the vendors shouting prices and offers over the buzzing of the crowd.

In the harbour porters were loading and unloading crates and barrels, the harbourmasters always right behind them to bellow the next instructions. Seagulls flew up in a cacophony of protest as Silas proceeded down towards the Hammer&Anvil Inn, where most ship’s captains spent the day drinking, brawling or recruiting.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke and laughter, the distant song of a pair of lutes and a flute barely audible. At the far side of the inn the barkeeper was handing flagons to eager patrons. It was to him that Silas proceeded, greeted by a big and welcoming smile.

“Ah, good mornin’ t’you sir,” the barkeep said, filling yet another flagon for a man at the counter, “What brings you to the ‘Ammer an’ Anvil?”

“I’m actually looking for a man named Godwin,” Silas said, manoeuvring away from a man who was stumbling around with his drink, “Have you seen him today by any chance?”

“‘Ave I seen ‘im? Ha! I’ve kicked ‘im out already!”

“Excuse me?”

“You ‘eard right. ‘e was in ‘ere drinking afore the taps even started flowin’, as is. I kicked ‘im out just o’er an hour ago.”

“Do you know where he might have gone?”

“Probably still sleepin’ it off in the alley out back. I’d check there if I was you.”

Silas shoved his way to the back door of the inn, picking up and moving away an Argonian who was lying passed out in front of the door. Outside, the alleyway was muddy and filled with empty ale barrels and crates of vegetables. There was no sign of Godwin, but angry voices directed Silas deeper into the alley.

“… give us the coin purse old man!” a grating voice sounded from behind a stack of barrels.

“Who ye callin’ an old man?” a drunken voice asked.

“You, you stinkin’ piece o’ skeever hide!” an orcish voice spoke.

“Do ye know who…” the drunk man stopped momentarily, “…I am? I am the captain of the Mudcrab’s Bri’e!”

Silas came out behind the stack of crates when he heard the name of the ship. What he saw was a Breton in his late fifties standing with his back to the wall and a bottle of ale in his right hand, surrounded by five brutish men armed with daggers. A tall Altmer man was standing behind the brutes with his back to Silas, his long golden hair reaching the middle of his back.

Hmm… If I handle this with tact, I might be able to save my captain without a fight, Silas thought, examining the postures and possible weak points in the brutes’ defences as he cleared his throat.

The brutes and Altmer spun around, clearly taken by surprise. The Altmer’s eyes quickly examined Silas, a bemused smile on his face.

“Can my… Associates and I assist you, sir?” the Altmer said, a threatening yet calm tone in his voice.

“Actually, yes,” Silas said, “I seem to have lost something that I require in this alleyway, and I’m looking for it.”

“Is that so? And what is it you have lost?”

“I think you mean had lost. I found him right there, behind your associates.”

The brutes, nudged each other, grins starting to form on their battered faces. “Really? Well, I am sorry to inform you that we will be needing this man here for some time still,” the Altmer said, his hand pushing back his cloak to reveal a sword. “It would be best if you just hurry along and come back for him later.”

This is turning south real fast, Silas thought to himself, before speaking again. “It seems we have come to an impasse then, because you see, I kind of need him now, and not later, so…”

The Altmer smiled at Silas with a cold smile. “No, my good sir, you do not. Please allow two of my associates to quickly lead you away from here, and we’ll be sure to make quick work with our mutual friend here.”

With that, two of the brutes, a bulky orc and a Nord, stepped passed their leader and faced Silas. When he didn’t move, the orc reached out with one of his large hands to grab at the Breton’s arm. But it never reached Silas.

Silas had drawn his blade and amputated the orc in one quick motion, sending a scream filled with pain, anger and shock into the mouldy alley air. He stumbled back, his right hand clutching the place where mere moments ago his hand had been reaching for this seemingly weak man.

Having caught them unaware, Silas brought the butt of his sword around to hit the Nord on the forehead, a loud thump filling the packed alley as he fell to the ground.

Having seen their comrades both incapacitated by this man several sizes smaller than them, the final three brutes charged. A Dunmer brute swung his mace high, aiming for Silas’ head. Silas side-stepped out of the way, taking his staff off of his back in the same motion. Another orc lunged clumsily at Silas, swinging way too far to cause serious damage.

Thinking quickly, Silas used a telekinesis spell to propel a few crates at the brutes while thinking of a better method.

They’re way too big to attempt and pacify, or incite fear into, he thought, flinging another box at the Dunmer. And this alley is too cramped to attempt to conjure something! There’s only one thing to do, other than run, but I don’t like it.

With that, Silas used dream Illusion magic to enter the mind of the orc, who was the biggest of the three. He was surprised by how easy it was, most people having an innate resistance to normal dream magic. Inside, he hastily worked with the thoughts of the orc, manipulating the thoughts for his benefit.

Exiting the orc’s mind, Silas plonked down on the muddy ground as the orc turned on his comrades. Exhausted mentally and magically, Silas hoped, no prayed, that his magic would last long enough for him to recover.

This hope left his mind as he felt the cold steel and hot blood of a sword just used to kill someone at his throat. Opening his eyes, Silas saw the Altmer standing there, the orc and other two brutes lying dead on the ground.

“A cheap move, sir,” the Altmer said, “using dream magic to turn one of my men against me.”

“When the gods grant you the gift of magic, you should use it properly,” Silas said in a tired voice.

“Gods? The gods left Mundus for a reason, you fool! The Aedra don’t care about what happens with your petty mortal lives.”

“Our petty mortal lives, you mean to say,” Silas corrected the Altmer.

“You must be foolish and ignorant. The Revenant are the true way to immortality!”

Suddenly it dawned on Silas why these brutes were so arrogant as to attack two people in one of the busiest harbours of Tamriel. “The Revenant aren’t in the city,” he said, “they can’t be. Not yet.”

The Altmer let out a cold and malicious laugh. “Wrong,” he said, using his free hand to reveal a large R branded into his neck. “The Revenant are rising, and we cannot be stopped. I’ll gladly send your soul to Peryite for my place in line for immortality.”

Silas tasted blood in his mouth and realized he had been biting his tongue. The Altmer’s arm muscles tensed as he prepared to end the Breton’s life. Then, as if he heard his soul being ripped apart and shattered in the realms of the Daedra, he heard a loud shattering noise.

However, it was not his soul that was shattering, but a bottle of ale crashing down on the head of the unsuspecting Altmer, knocking him out cold moments before he killed Silas. There, swaying from side to side, stood the drunk captain named Godwin.

"Tha's wa' yoo ge' for tryin' to steal mah money," Godwin said

“Godwin! Thank Akatosh for that ale bottle!” Silas said, jumping up and shaking Godwin excitedly, “Come! Let’s get you sobered up.”

“Woo’re yoo?” Godwin slurred.

“I am the man you should be captaining a ship for. But I can’t have you preparing the ship for the journey like this!”

“How so? I’m… fieneh!”

Silas waved away Godwin’s belch as he led the drunken man out of the alley where six men lay, two out cold, three dead, and one weeping. “For one,” he said, “let’s get you a bath. I’ll rent a room at the inn where I’m staying for you to sleep off this inebriation. The rest of my company will start arriving soon.”

And with that, Silas led Godwin out of the dark and damp alley into the winter morning sun of Anvil, making his way to his tavern deeper in the city, where his companions would join him on a quest to save Tamriel from the clutches of the Revenant…

He was laying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The moonlight seeped through a nearby window. An odd feeling was in the air. Sudden regret was creeping, like a cat on the man. His hands were placed behind his head, intertwining with his hair. His eyebrows were creased, deep in thought. Lips twisted into a scowl. What happened? The hum was slowly growing faint, weakening against the long silence. The man turned on his side, staring out the window. All he can see from the view was lights in town of Skingrad and the stars in the sky. He sighed, moving his eyes to the moon. Small, grey clouds were covering the light- partially to warn for a later storm. Tonight needs to be stormy, wash away all the sins of this town.
The man yawned, shifting in the bed to stand up. It was too late to care for anything. Brakmurtor wasn't the kind of guy to actually wander the streets if the town, looking for adventure. Adventure comes looking for him.
Brakmurtor sat heavily on his bed, looking at the slightly ajar door. No light came through since everyone in the inn was sleeping. He groaned. I really don't want to go out. It was no avail. Adventure, rather a figure of the darkness, needed Barkmurtor's help. He receive the notice on parchment paper via messenger a few weeks before. It was a silly request, like asking to kill a dragon barehanded. He wasn't told who sent him the notice or why they sent it to somebody like him- some called him a war being.
Within a few minutes, Brakmurtor was walking down the steps of the inn, carrying his almighty axe on the back and his helmet under his left arm.
When he got to the landing, Brakmutor looked back at the top of the first floor. A sudden wave of sadness crossed his mind. He shrugged it off, opening the door once last time and left.



The inn was a mile away when Brakmurtor made to the outside of Skingrad. He would often look back at the town, triggered with sadness and hatred. The moon from above was still glowing radiantly, providing a beam of milky white for Brakmurtor as he continued walking. He carried his axe close, afraid of a sudden or planned attack. There wasn't much people out and about in Skingrad at this time, everybody was either dead or pretending to be dead. I wish I wasn't here. A cool breeze was blowing from the north, creating a feeling that winter would be coming. A sad, little memory was brought upon the wind. Like a baby on a front porch. Brakmurtor shook of the cold like a heavy blanket, and continued south. Adventure is calling.
A few minutes later, the nord was hiking across opening land, southwest of Skingrad. There was some snow on few of the trees, rocks spotted the vast plain, and above was growing lighter with heavy clouding. The cold air was burning his lungs, causing him to grunt every so often. It was known that every nord that ever lived was adapted to the cold. He could feel the coldness digging into his bones like a knife.
Where the hell is this place anyway? Brakmurtor asked himself, digging into his side pocket. He pulled out parchment paper, the same one that was given to him by the hidden figure a few weeks ago. Brakmurtor would often stare at the parchment paper, thinking it was some sort of riddle that had the answer inside the question.
He pocketed the paper, and continued looking. The once hiding sun was now rising from its slumber, glowing as beautiful as the moon that night. It slowly crawled towards the middle, creating life throughout the plain to come alive. Wolves were running in the distance, deer and butterflies were forlicking and fluttering, and bears could be seen eating berries from a nearby bush. Brakmurtor stopped walking and observed these animals from afar. He remembered his first love would observe animals, some big and some small, throughout her day. She would come back to his place, explaining in great detail about the animals she seen. Brakmurtor loved her for that.
But she was dead. Memories like that bring a sudden tug of hatred and sadness at his heart, flickering a fire of revenge against those who killed his love. Brakmurtor clenched his fist, controlling his anger. There was an elk that was eating at the dead, winter grass few feet from him. Maybe I should slew it. Killing always seems to calm me down.

Brakmurtor grabbed his axe from behind him, and gripped it. Walking slowly, he moved opposite of the elk, trying to attack it from behind. The elk hadn't noticed this plan, continuing eating its breakfast. Angry adrenaline was pumping in his bloodstream, for whatever was going to happen, Brakmurtor might regret. He was running down, quietly towards the elk. He positioned his axe to the side of him, readying to swing. When he was a foot away, the elk turned suddenly seeing death. A small wave of panic rushed over the elk, responding in sudden urge to run away from the unpredictable predator. It was too late. Before the elk could skip away, Brakmurtor swung his axe cause this poor elk to have a huge gash in his side.
Breathless, the nord casted his glance downwards at the ground. The adrenaline that once powered him to kill a helpless animal, was gone. He left the limp animal, thinking the wolves would get it sooner or later, continuing southwest to his destination.



Somebody was waiting. In a white gown, holding red roses. They were smiling. Their finger nails, painted like the roses, intertwined each other. Long, brown hair flowed over their shoulders and covered their face. The person was shaking from laughter. Horrible, shrill laughter. Everytime he tried to grab out to her, she faded and faded away. Her laughter echoed around him, like being in a cave. It was taunting him. Confusing him. He fell to his knees, clenching what he had left, and stared at the rocky ground under him.

You're far too late, Brakmurtor. A voice cooed, fading into the distance when suddenly a shrill scream ripped through the silence. He tried to cover his ears, it was not worth it. Everything you love will die. Die. Die. Die.

And then soft, mocking laughter.



Brakmurtor woke up in a cold sweat. Panting, he sat up and surveyed the area he was in. A night sky, twinkling with thousands of stars. The cool wind moving through the trees. Howling in the night.

Die. Die. Die. Those words echoed in his mind. Brakmurtor took a deep breathe, panting his chest to calm him down. This was the first real nightmare Brakmurtor had after his love died. Before that, it was just small fragments of horrible parts of his life jammed into a glorious dream. As his breathing came back to normal, Brakmurtor stared at the starry night sky. There wasn't a moon out tonight, hiding behind the covering blackness. He gripped a blanket he brought with him, worrying about the nightmare.

It's only your imagination. Don't think about it too much. He told himself countless times. Everything was hurting. His neck. His back. His heart. The eerie quiet of the world settled around Brakmurtor. The howls that once echoed the valley, were gone. Brakmurtor laid down against a smooth rock, and covered himself with the blanket. To the left of him was his axe, stained with the blood from the elk that he'd killed early on.
He wasn't tired for the most part, but didn't want to get up and continue on his path. Brakmurtor needed rest for what his next plan was going to be. The dead grass was pointing into his back, like a thousand spears.

Of all the places to sleep, I choose to sleep here.

At least he was protected. Huge rocks were around him, acting as if like a cave. It was hidden in a slope that Brakmurtor was walking past that evening. He made a fire, ate some of the nuts and berry he brought, then slept.
Something was digging at his chest. An echo. A worrying pain, unearth. He wasn't sure.

I'll sleep on it. And he did.

Smapt'e the "Cat" | In a Fighting Pit somewhere in Anvil

Everyone was wrong about fighting. It was not power or speed that courted victory. It was thought.

Smapt'e spun between two of his opponents, hooking his leg around the neck of the Nord behind him and twisting, causing the man to lose his balance, and topple sideways, dragging Smapt'e out of the way of a hefty strike aimed at his face.

The Cat slung himself under the Nord, using his momentum to drive both his knives into the poor fool before hitting the ground. He absorbed the impact with a backwards roll, drawing his knives out of the dead man and landing back on his haunches all in one movement. Just in time to jump forwards, dodging another blow from the axe wielding Orc that he knew would be there.

The Orc was a good fighter, but rash and bullish. Smapt'e knew he would waste no time over the death of his ally.

He deflected another blow, allowing the knife in his right hand to slide along the axe's hilt, seeking to rip out the heart of the Orc.

The Orc however, had no intention of dying that day. He maneuvered the hilt of his axe between his chest and Smapt'e's deadly blades.

The Cat jumped back, ducking a vicious swipe to the head, and shot his leg out, aiming to trip the Orc.

He missed by an inch as his opponent sidestepped, slamming his axe down where Smapt'e had been only seconds before. Smapt'e dodged a series of blows, slightly surprised at how fast the Orc struck, using axe as more of a staff than anything.

The Cat slipped inside his opponents guard, aiming to take the Orc's head off with. The Orc would have none of it, he shied off to the right, bunting Smapte's arm away then using the space for a brutal strike to The Cat's exposed ribs. Smapt'e spun past the blow, now going for his opponent's unguarded back.

His knife was turned by the blade of the Orc's axe as he bent it backwards, a complex maneuver that relied solely on prediction.

Suddenly, the blade was knocked from Smapt'e's hand as the head of the axe twitched violently upwards. The Cat backpedaled as the Orc turned to face him, wasting no time in plowing forwards to strike.

Smapt'e sheathed his remaining knife, and executed a perfect backflip, unsheathing his bow in the same movement and firing an arrow.

The Orc blocked it with his axe, but the momentary pause gave Smapt'e enough time to put an arrow in his foot. The Orc grunted in pain and his axe dropped slightly.

The next arrow took him right between the eyes.

The Cat had won again.

Smapt'e let the roar of the crowd roll off him as he walked back into the bowels of the Pit.

He passed other gladiators, waiting their turn to fight. Smapt'e didn't pay to much attention to them, he would not be fighting for the next couple of days.

The Cat had better things to do.

Suddenly, one of the men bumped him. Smapt'e turned, growling angrily.

"Smapt'e Yalle'en?"

The Cat glared at the stranger.

"I am he. Don't waste my time. Tell me what you want."

The man produced a grimy note from his robes, and handed it to Smapt'e.

"Its from a man who goes by the name of White. He told me nothing more."

Smapt'e's ears perked up.

"Thank you."

The Cat dropped a couple septims into the stranger's waiting hand and, picking up his, pace, left the arena.

The night's light found Smapt'e in his own room. The Blacksmith's Forge was one of the only adequate Inn's in Anvil. The rooms were drab but well kept and the food was better than the usual rotting skeever meat.

None of this mattered to Smapt'e. He read through the letter again, his eyes flowing over Carnigeir White's rushed script.

Carnigeir was never rushed.

Smapt'e put down the note, then strode to his window, gazing out at the quiet streets from his third story window.

Carnigeir was never rushed. So death caught him.

And now Smapt'e was stuck with a cryptic message and, according to said message, a whole lot of warriors.

The Cat sighed, then crumpled the letter and threw it into the hungry flames of the fireplace.

He had memorized the details.

Smapt'e left the room, all his luggage in one bag on his shoulder. Grumbling under his breath.

"Lets make this short and quick."

Irwain

"What's the matter with you?" A man snaps at his companion. "You've been staring at that tree for the last hour."

"There's something watching us," the second man narrows his eyes, searching the green leaves of the tree. "I can feel its eyes on us."

"Idiot," a third man shakes his head.

"Whatever it is, it hasn't attacked us," a woman pipes up. "So get off your lazy backsides and help me with this damn cart!"

The three men rush over to the cart wedged between two trees, and help their female companion to push it through. It takes an awful amount of effort, and there is a lot of yelling. When they finally get it unstuck and back onto the thin trail through the forest, they cheer and fist-pump the air.

"Right," the woman claps her hands and grabs the reins of the cart horse. "Time to get going. These supplies won't sell on their own."

"Yes sir!" One of the men yells and hooks the horse to the cart.

And they're off at a steady walk, the horse maneuvering down the path, dodging the trees. And this time the driver is more careful about where she steers the horse. And the horse plods on, oblivious to the world around it. Totally oblivious.

I'm taking the horse too.

I glide through the treetops, following the people in the carriage. After a few hours they finally stop, and start to set up camp. Bloody finally!

Once they're settled below, I prepare myself for my attack. One against three. The odds don't seem too bad, and I have the element of surprise. But I need to do this without spooking the horse. Ah, who am I kidding? This should be a piece of cake. And it will be a piece of cake because I'm bloody hungry.

The evening air is warm as it flows through my lungs. It smells of promise and tastes like ... Gross, mouldy leaves. I crouch in the treetops, my legs burning with anticipation, my muscles tensed and ready. I can feel every nerve in my body preparing for my next move. My eyes rove about the small campsite, scrutinizing every single escape possibility and advantage point.

My gut twists with excitement as I pull out my bow and aim. The woman is on first watch. She's facing away from me, her back slouched. Jeez, lady, don't you know slouching is bad for your posture? Maybe I should climb down and give her a lesson on how to sit. But wait, she's going to be dead in three seconds, what does it matter.

Pulling the arrow back, I inhale, the smell of pins tickling my nose. I stare down the arrow and passed the point, exhale, and release. The arrow whizzes through the air and strikes the woman right through the head. She falls to the ground with a loud 'thud'. I quickly draw another arrow and wait. Nothing happens. Well this is boring.

"Hey!" I yell as I leap down into the centre of the camp.

The two men leap to their feet and stare at me in total shock. I give them both an accusing look and hold my arms out.

"Uhm, do you know how long I've been tracking you guys?" I growl. "The least you could do is make it worth the waste of time it's turning out to be."

"A-are you going to eat us?" One of the men splutters.

I blink at him before throwing my head back to laugh. "Oh don't be silly," I shake my head and pull out an arrow, shooting him square in the eye. "I couldn't possibly eat the both of you."

"Oh shit," the second man curses and dashes off into the forest.

"Yay, fun time!" I cheer, and put replace my bow with my two blades, before taking chase.

The forest floor is a little harder to sprint through, but this man doesn't have a chance in hell against me. Within moments I've caught him and disabled him. And by disabled I mean I cut off his feet. He screams in agony as I drag him back to the camp. I say a quick thank you to the Gods before killing the man and stocking the fire.

After a good, hearty meal, I take the horse and ride until I can barely keep my eyes open. I tie the horse up securely to a tree and curl up between its legs, falling asleep without a care in the world.



"Hey," something nudges my ribs. "Get up."

"Five more minutes, I'm tired," I grumble.

Something hits my side with a lot of force, knocking the wind out of me. I wheeze and open my eyes to find myself staring at a pair of brown boots. Where's my damn horse?

"Get up," the same voice growls.

Slowly, I pull myself to my feet and stare at the man before me. He's tall with fair skin and blonde hair. I'd like to say he's handsome, but I'm pretty sure he just kicked me in the stomach so he can suck my d–

"Are you Irwain Nathanial?" He asks.

"Nathwaenyl," I correct.

"Couldn't care less," he huffs. "This is yours."

He hands me an envelope and turns around to walk away.

"Hey!" I yell after him.

"What?" He glances over his shoulder at me.

"When I see you next, because that's going to happen, I'll break your ribcage," I hold my thumb up to him, grinning wide.

He rolls his eyes and continues walking. I convince myself following him will be boring and climb the tree nearest to read the letter. And it is actually addressed to me. Dear Miss Irwain Nathwaenyl. Jeez, so formal. Wait ...

I read through the letter properly and with each paragraph my eyes widen in surprise. When I get to, 'Thank you, Carnigeir White' I fold the letter up and shove it in my pocket. Man, I have to take this in. I sit there for a full minute, processing what I'd just read. So there's a new world war, and the enemy calls themselves The Revenant. And I'm to head to Anvil to meet my teammates.

After all of this sinks in, I keel over, laughing. I laugh so hard I actually wind myself. Gee, that cant be good. Twice in the space of an hour. My cardiovascular system is so screwed now.

But seriously? Me? Seriously and me don't belong in the same sentence. But I mean, come on! They want me to save the day? Sorry, help save the day. I've been asked to join a team of other "heroes"? Hell no, absolutely not, no freaking way! It's the most stupid thing to have happened in my life since my birth. Harsh, I know, but true. No one from my family or kinsmen want me. But this White guy thinks I'm going to help stop the Revenant? I can't even take them seriously, how am I supposed to seriously stop them?

Screw the letter, ad screw Carnigeir White. Or whatever his name is. I'm not going to join a group of mismatched rejects for a cause that has no effect on me at all, whatsoever. Well, except for the impending doom part. Sheesh, is it just me, or does Tamriel get more depressing each millennia?

Leave me alone Carnigeir White! I'm busy with my life!

Climbing down from the tree, I set off at an upbeat walk, heading in any sort of direction, really. I keep walking until I get to a road, and I continue to follow it. Boredom kicks in after a while, so I stop and do a dance. Yes, I danced in the middle of the road, so what? Bite me.

The sound of voice makes my ears prick. My sense of hearing strains as I try to make out what's being said. The voices are low and harsh, probably belonging to men. The voices grow louder, and within moments two people astride two very healthy looking horses come into view. The men notice me and stop, hands going to the swords at the belts.

I hold my hands up defensively and smile. "Now, now, you don't have to worry about me," I tell them. "I just want a horse."

Both men draw their swords and push their horses forward. I roll my eyes and pull out my bow, shooting one man through the chest. He growls in pain and falls off his horse. The second man wheels his mount around and jumps off as he speeds passed, his sword whizzing over my head. I pull out a second arrow and shoot him, but he moves fast and the arrow hits his shoulder. I shoot again, this time getting him in the throat.

With an angry huff, I collect my arrows and walk over to one of the horses. She stares at me with wide eyes the colour of the leaves above. I stroke her nose before leaping into the saddle.

What else could I possibly do with my time? I might as well head on over to Anvil and see if there is any use for my skills. Pah, a hero of Tamriel. That's gotta be the joke of the century. Me, saving the day?

Joke's on you, Carnigeir White, because I'll probably make things worse.

To Anvil it is, then!

Helios

Strike left. Strike right.

My actions were merely machine like motions, much like the dwarven inventions.

Parry. Counter. Thrust. Another dead enemy, another lifeless corpse.

I watched as the garrison of Revenant soldiers beat a hasty retreat against the Imperial soldiers. The Imperials all cheered and shouted as I bent one knee, burying my sword in the ground, yanking my amulet from beneath my chain mail shirt. " I am his right hand. I serve justice and order, sending my enemy's to O live on to face the justice of him. Hail to Jyygalaag." I murmured my mantra quickly, before returning focus to the battlefield as Imperials healers began to approach, quickly administering to the wounded.

I stood up as the Imperial's Commander, Legate Toras approached. He saluted before placing my payment into my out stretched hand." We appreciate your aid in this fight against the Revenant Knight-Paladin Iskander. Your prowess is unmatched, which is why I must implore to continue fighting by our side. The Revenant and the Aldmeri Dominion are a threat to us all. Not just this here now."

I shook my my head as I pocketed my septims." I'm afraid I have other matters to attend to if of a more personal nature Legate. But I will return to the front as soon as I am able." I bowed before turning away, making haste for the main Imperial camp, and from there, onto Anvil.

My quarters in the Imperial base camp were adequate. A cot and blankets, and a chest for my items. I cleared all my gear out, before I said a quick prayer that the Prince of order would watch over this army, for their goal was most honorable. To free the imperial city from siege. I quickly made my way to the stables, approaching my war horse, Storm Shadow, who whinnied nervously." Shush boy, we're on our way to serve His will. Perhaps we can be the ones to save Him from the curse?" I tightens my pack saddles." The answer is in Anvil boy. Two days ride. You must truly show me the meaning of haste." He whinnied, as if offended I knew he couldn't get me there in a night and a day.

Smiling I mounted him, a nearby stable boy handing me my lance and shield. I handed him a septim before making my way out of the camp. I had received the letter from Carniger White, that morning. Perhaps it was my Lord's will, I wasn't sure, but I would answer the call, and put an end to this war, which was also a threat to my elven wife, Asha, who was in Valenwood with her parents while I fought on the front lines.

I put my heels to Storm Shadow, as he sped of Into the crisp morning air, south towards the city of Anvil.

“You’re crazy!”

Kell chuckled at the cornered thief. Well, “cornered” was more a figure of speech than an adjective that accurately described the concerned individual’s physical environment. To be precise, the thief was trapped on a jetty, as Kell stood at the side that connected it to the rest of the harbour. He tilted his head and smiled innocently.

“Why? Is it because your targets don’t usually chase after you, much less actually catch you?”

“No!” The Redguard glanced nervously around him. He was searching for an escape route, but the silly rabbit must have known it was a futile endeavour.

“Then why?” Kell persisted in a childish tone.

“Because o’ that!” the thief exclaimed and pointed at Kell’s chest.

The Destruction Mage gasped and held his hand over his heart. “No, not because of the organ that represents my vitality!”

“There! You’re doing it again! You’re crazy in the head because o’ the weird stuff you say and do. Something ain’t right with you, man. You need to be locked up.”

Kell fired off some sparks, startling the thief. He laughed partly because it was part of the act and partly because he had the most entertaining hobby ever. Scaring savage creatures was fun, but scaring humans and elves was even better, seeing as they reacted so much more… colourfully. You could never be absolutely certain about the kind of reaction you would get, and after all, the surprise is half of the fun anyway.

“Coming from a thief, that statement is heavily laden with irony. Unfortunately, it is not the only thing that is heavily laden – you are too, with my belongings.”

“Man, I already told you, I didn’t take your stuff!”

“Of course you didn’t take my stuff. “Stuff” classifies as anything, but the informal usage suggests things which aren’t of much value. If you had stolen my ladle, one of my Skeever Tails, or my Sweetroll, then you would have stolen my stuff. However, you stole a few of my bejewelled rings, my diamond necklace, both my Scrolls of Mass Paralysis, and my portable Enchanting Table. Those technically classify as “treasure”, and thieves who steal treasure are always looking for trouble.”

“Hey, I wasn’t looking for trouble, I swear. Just let me go.”

“Why? You weren’t looking for trouble, I’ll give you that, but you see, each of my items are cursed with trouble, so if they should ever be taken, trouble will find you. That may be a cheesy line, but– Oh, hold on.” Kell produced a slice of cheese from his knapsack. “I blame this.”

“Man, only crazy people carry cheese on them!”

“Don’t be daft. I took it from a platter in the inn because I wanted an early breakfast. What was I supposed to do when I returned to my room to find a stranger walking down the hallway with my door ajar? Drop it?”

“Come on, just let me go. I don’t have your trinkets. And you’re not going to search me for them.”

“Pfft. Trinkets are what tourists buy and hawkers sell. I’m an adventurer. And actually, now I’m an impatient adventurer. If you think you’re leaving here with what belongs to me, you’re even dumber than I thought. I mean really, if you had searched a little harder, you’d have found my most valuable items hidden underneath a loose floorboard.”

“Man, you’re the dumb one if you think we don’t know about that loose floorboard. It’s been there for ages.”

Kell laughed maniacally. “Now I get it! I couldn’t understand why you were stalling, but now I do. Well, your friends are in for a nasty shock. You see, beggars notice a lot of things. Almost everybody ignores a beggar, which makes them perfect for gleaning interesting facts from unsuspecting sources. It is for that reason that I treat them not as beggars, but as merchants. Most of them find the respect a pleasant change already, but throw money into the pot, and boy, then they start getting chatty. All the criminals in this port know about the common hiding places, which is why I placed a Shock Rune inside that clearly visible loose floorboard. The one to which I am referring is the one in the next room.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Why? I have nothing to gain from lying to myself. Your friends are dead, and now, you might be too. It depends on how good you can swim while paralysed.”

He tossed the slice of cheese at the man. The man winced at the movement, causing the cheese to strike him in the face.

“You thought I was going to shock you? No, no, no. You clearly know nothing of one-liners. I shock you, you get paralysed, your convulsions cause you to roll into the water, and then I yell into the water, ‘Have fun swimming with the fishes!’ Hence the cheese.”

The sorcerer did exactly as he had explained and walked to the end of the jetty. Shouldering the thief’s bag containing his loot, Kell remarked, “People nowadays have no sense of humour. If it’s not dirty or racist, they don’t get it.”

He returned to his room where, as predicted, three dead thieves lay on the floor. Kell wriggled his nose. Criminals always made things so messy. The thief that had been closest to the rune had suffered a third degree electrical burn. Electrical burns were far less noticeable than burns caused by fire, but it seemed the rune had delivered a large enough explosion that his skin had been charred anyway. Yeah, burned flesh smelled exactly what you would expect it to smell like.

He stepped over the corpses to collect his things. Even in death, they were an inconvenience, for Kell kept tripping over the sprawled limbs. One time, he actually fell and touched the dead thief’s arm. It was rigid, but not yet cold, which meant they had not been dead for very long. At least there was no taste or hearing involved. Seeing, smelling, and touching burned bodies were bad enough. Then again, the only time he had ever heard corpses was if the victim had drowned and the trapped gases inside the body escaped (it made the most awful bubbling or sucking noises), and he was pretty sure tasting a corpse was cannibalism. Unless you were a werewolf, but that was a philosophical discussion he’d have with himself some other day.

He went through his belongings to double check that everything was still there, and seeing that it was, he exited his room, closed the door, and retrieved his treasure from the next room. He went through that stash as well, and again, everything was there, which meant all the thieves were dead. Just as he closed the door behind him, realisation dawned: all his soul gems were gone.

He dashed back into both rooms and searched for them, but they were gone. It seems one thief had escaped after all. Silently, Kell asked Lorkhan to plague the criminal with horrible luck – not because he needed the money, but because being burgled always dealt a blow to one’s pride. Of course, it was a significant loss, since he had been planning on selling all the Greater and Grand Soul Gems, while destroying the rest. He never carried Black Soul Gems on him, both as a precaution and because he always shattered them on sight.

Peeved that he could not enjoy a total victory in the end, he descended the stairs and stopped at the bar on the way out.

“I left somewhat of a mess upstairs,” he said, handing the innkeeper the formerly stolen rings. “That’s to pay for… cleaning it up.” He added one of the two Mass Paralysis Scrolls to the pile. “Just in case you might need it,” he explained, “whether to sell it or use it as its creator intended. Have a good day.”

Being gloomy wouldn’t benefit him at all, so Kell hummed a cheerful melody back on the way to the harbour instead. He passed the beggar who had shared that most useful bit of information about the floorboard and dropped the last of the rings into his hat. He proceeded to the anchored boats and passed by all of them until he reached a small fishing vessel called the Buoyant Mudcrab. The captain was leaning on the ship’s starboard railing and gazed across the glistening sea.

“The weather’s good,” the captain replied upon hearing the creak of shoes on his deck. “It’ll be a fine day of sailing, it will. It ought to take no more than two hours to reach Anvil.”

Kell clapped his hands together. “Excellent! Here’s your payment.”

The captain rose, turned, and carefully took the diamond necklace from Kell’s outstretched hand. “A thing of beauty, eh?” he said. He slipped it into his pocket with a chuckle. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, it is. You can go ahead and wait below deck. I’ll come fetch you once I’m certain no unsavoury folks are waiting to ambush you.”

Because if Carnigeir White sent you a letter asking for your aid, there was a very high likelihood of that happening. That was why he had chosen a fisherman as ferry, and not the actual ferry.

“Much appreciated, though I’ve had enough of pungent people for today as well.”

“What?”

“It’s a pun. Never mind.”