Where I Keep Me Writings

@sadclownofaman 's RP sideblog.

[sadclown-rp]

The Storm of the Norsemen [Skyrim: Edmund & Hides-His-Eyes]

[sonofhighrock]

sadclown-rp:

The Decanus shrugged, still wondering why the man spoke so cryptically. This Legate, if he was who he said he was, spoke in the manner more of a wizard than a militant—and that confused the Argonian. Quickly, he darted aside as the man paused to stroke his facial hair, pulling a soldier close and asking them to look over the trainees; he had business elsewhere to attend to. Great, fur-cloaked pauldrons seemed to jump on the broad Argonian’s shoulders as he stepped, purposeful in his mission. Motioning for the door to be opened, two attendants hurried about the knockers, pulling the huge wooden portal open. “I…..as…good of a mood as he can be, I suppose,” Hides-His-Eyes replied, one hand cupping the pommel of his short sword. “Please, do excuse me for interjecting, but if there’s a security concern in the province, I feel that I should at least be familiar with what we’re going up against—” He sounded rather strained now, his calm, almost sleepy composure now hardening to a calloused, concerned visage. “—At least then, I would be able to train the troops more efficiently for whatever they’ll he fighting?” He followed into the stony chamber, much of the light in the room extinguishing as the doors shut with a rumble and grate behind them.

Edmund walked into the castle, wondering why Nordic architecture always made their castles so dark, thinking of the castle he grew up in back in High Rock. It was not so dark but filled with light. He stops in mid-step at the words of the Argonian, tilting his head and stroking his beard again, a habit he picked up when he grew out his beard. 

“Well many of Ulfric’s forces are moving to attack Morthal and try to take it over and capture the marshland which is way too close to Solitude. Also well…” 

He clears his throat, ice eyes sparkle as he knows what else is there and why Tullius actually called him for this was to deal with the more pressing matter than even the stormcloak army. He lowers his voice so only the Argonian can hear him and not upset the other soldiers. 

“In the area has been spotted a very aggressive dragon. The thing is no one can defeat a dragon except me and that’s where I come into the plan. I will take on the dragon while the soldiers shall march onto the stormcloaks in the chaos.”  

[sadclown-rp]

The Argonian’s blood froze in his veins.

An assault on Morthal that involved would be ridiculously traumatic. The backlash from neighboring Holds would shake alliances with the Legion’s precious hold in Skyrim. They exuded an air of confidence, pride and strength about them—but in reality, the Empire was teetering on the edge of open war. Ulfric, the brutish bastard, would force the hand of the Empire to smash out another insurgence. Stopping in his tracks, the Hides only moved again when the second phase of news came through.

“Stendarr protect us…” He picked up speed and paused to formally look his superior with respect and salute properly. “Sir, ask that I may accompany you to the General’s, so that I may ask for clearance to tell my recruits. This is of dire importance.”

[halliserres]

Blackreach

[sadclown-rp]

Cut of A Similar Cloth...(Wah-Jah the Knife & Ana)

The days were getting longer and longer as the spring rolled lazily into summer, pulling with it a curtain of sunshine and humid mornings that draped thick fog over Falkreath’s Hold. At the ripe, delightfully dew-dripping time of six in the morning, just as the sun began to rise in the sky and the moons fell below the horizon, it was time to start the fire. Start cooking. Start caring for that…insufferable young brat of a vagabond.

Wah-Jah sometimes doubted himself and his decision to take up that mercenary contract working for a Dunmer woman; Dinasa Beraus. The original contract said she was looking for an experienced bodyguard to escort, protect and aide in barrow-delving, good at traversing dangerous wildlands, comfortable with going off course and able to speak “the local language of Falkreath, Whiterun, and the Eastmarch Holds.” A big load of fat that was, the Argonian reflected piling up logs that had been cut and stacked the night before in a circle of stones he’d gathered throughout the area. They hadn’t seen civilization in over a month, and more conflict with reanimated Nords & dungeon-rats than he’d cared for.

Seating himself up on a stump, he rummaged about in his pack for a bit of packaged potatoes and fresh leaf-litter, wrapping them in the tough native leaves of the land before setting them aside. Begrudgingly, with the shady gaze of the great pines & laurels around him and the pinkish-purplish glow of the morning sky in the distance, the dark-skinned man focused a moment before conjuring a brief, sputtering spark of flame to ignite the bottom-most log. Once lit, he hastily grabbed for his long-knife, jostling the sticks about in an effort to get a fire going.

Now, it wasn’t that he didn’t like going on adventures. In fact, that’d been one of the chiefest reasons for him leaving Blackmarsh and to venture into this cold, dry land. No, it wasn’t that. It was this particular company, this Dinasa Beraus, that made his redish-brown dewlap swell in frustration. For claiming she knew what she was doing, and for being so notably defensive when asked what her goals and missions were, she really seemed to be a fish out of water. Probably just crossed over from Morrowind and plunged into such a polar-opposite province, Wah-Jah doubted she'e ever left her probably-lofty palace-home before in her life. She treated him like a servant, calling him “Boy,” “You brute,” telling him to “shut his sandy lips" whenever he asked questions about the various artifacts she collected throughout the various ruins the pair had explored. On one occasion, she even had the gall to call him "Lizard.”

Minutes passed, and she soon woke up to the smell of burning wood. Without saying so much as a thank you for prepared food, he handed her the modest breakfast of river water, salted beef and baked potatoes he’d made for both of them. Minus the river water for him, though; that’d been replaced with a stiff draught of Alto Wine, finest out of Hammerfell for the price. He would need more if he was to get through another day of this incessant ignoring and distance.

@furyandice

[sadclown-rp]

The Storm of the Norsemen [Skyrim: Edmund & Hides-His-Eyes]

[sonofhighrock]

sadclown-rp:

The Decanus shrugged, still wondering why the man spoke so cryptically. This Legate, if he was who he said he was, spoke in the manner more of a wizard than a militant—and that confused the Argonian. Quickly, he darted aside as the man paused to stroke his facial hair, pulling a soldier close and asking them to look over the trainees; he had business elsewhere to attend to. Great, fur-cloaked pauldrons seemed to jump on the broad Argonian’s shoulders as he stepped, purposeful in his mission. Motioning for the door to be opened, two attendants hurried about the knockers, pulling the huge wooden portal open. “I…..as…good of a mood as he can be, I suppose,” Hides-His-Eyes replied, one hand cupping the pommel of his short sword. “Please, do excuse me for interjecting, but if there’s a security concern in the province, I feel that I should at least be familiar with what we’re going up against—” He sounded rather strained now, his calm, almost sleepy composure now hardening to a calloused, concerned visage. “—At least then, I would be able to train the troops more efficiently for whatever they’ll he fighting?” He followed into the stony chamber, much of the light in the room extinguishing as the doors shut with a rumble and grate behind them.

Edmund walked into the castle, wondering why Nordic architecture always made their castles so dark, thinking of the castle he grew up in back in High Rock. It was not so dark but filled with light. He stops in mid-step at the words of the Argonian, tilting his head and stroking his beard again, a habit he picked up when he grew out his beard. 

“Well many of Ulfric’s forces are moving to attack Morthal and try to take it over and capture the marshland which is way too close to Solitude. Also well…” 

He clears his throat, ice eyes sparkle as he knows what else is there and why Tullius actually called him for this was to deal with the more pressing matter than even the stormcloak army. He lowers his voice so only the Argonian can hear him and not upset the other soldiers. 

“In the area has been spotted a very aggressive dragon. The thing is no one can defeat a dragon except me and that’s where I come into the plan. I will take on the dragon while the soldiers shall march onto the stormcloaks in the chaos.”  

[sadclown-rp]

The Argonian's blood froze in his veins.

An assault on Morthal that involved would be ridiculously traumatic. The backlash from neighboring Holds would shake alliances with the Legion's precious hold in Skyrim. They exuded an air of confidence, pride and strength about them—but in reality, the Empire was teetering on the edge of open war. Ulfric, the brutish bastard, would force the hand of the Empire to smash out another insurgence. Stopping in his tracks, the Hides only moved again when the second phase of news came through.

"Stendarr protect us..." He picked up speed and paused to formally look his superior with respect and salute properly. "Sir, ask that I may accompany you to the General's, so that I may ask for clearance to tell my recruits. This is of dire importance."

[ysmirdragonofthenorth]

Cragslane Recruitment

[sadclown-rp]

The murmuring drew louder as someone seemed to get up and begin walking towards the small figure’s position. It didn’t seem like it was an investigatory gait, however; a slow, awkward, dumb amble. Like a bear, Ba’aijj thought, this one must be Nordic. Ba’aijj knows a Nord’s footsteps from a mile away. That only worked to his advantage now, and as he scurried up behind a tall shrub, he caught sight of the bastard. Tall, thickly-muscled to the point of being brutish—like great, big hams had been bound to his arms and slabs of beef had been draped around his neck. Closer and closer he drew, zig-zagging lazily, stumbling occasionally over a stone or a root. Inch by inch, rock by rock, he came closer, closer still, oblivious. Indeed, a true son of Skyrim. 

It was like a lightening strike, three things happening at once; one rehearsed, fluid motion, and the Khajiit’s nimble fingers flew back towards his quiver and drew a poisoned arrow. At the same time, he seemed to shoot from the foliage like a hiding Spriggan, and with his bow hand shot forward a stinging sucker-punch directly into the Nord’s square nose.  Nocking the arrow and freeing himself from the foliage, the beastman swung around the back of the Nord and glanced about quickly, locating the other odd scent he’d noticed earlier. A lone Dunmer sat in his camp, making himself right at home it seemed. Poachers. Thieves. Freeloading dim-wits, it seemed. Attention darting back to the larger of the two men, Ba’aijj stared daggers at him and pulled to full-draw, the long, jagged edge of the arrow caked in a foul-looking paste that practically oozed misery. “Give us one reason not to make Fat-Boy here into wolf-bait, Dunmer,” He projected loud enough for the seated man to hear and, in a quieter tone, spoke at the Nord, “Move, and We pin djou to the tree. Nothing stupid now, thief.”

[ysmirdragonofthenorth]

The Nord pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stop the bleeding. He sniffled miserably as tears welled in his big, bulging eyes. “O-okay…!” he conceded, muttering in a ridiculously nasal voice. Blood poured from his nostrils, down his swollen Cupid’s bow and dripped off his chin, soaking into his thick fox fur collar.

His Dunmer companion leaped to his feet and drew his dagger, ready to defend his companion, but immediately lowered it once he saw the younger Khajiit hesitate. “Wait, wait! We’re not thieves! We are… recruiters! We were looking for you - on our boss’s behalf. You must be Ba’aijj, correct?” In a gesture of goodwill, he sheathed his weapon and lowered his hands to his side. He nervously crinkled his shirt.

[sadclown-rp]

Glaring narrowly at the two men below him, taking one, then two careful steps aside and higher up. His arm's direction swayed between the two, the glinting head of the arrow trailing lazily in the air over the two individuals. Half-squatted in the leafy grass, the khajiiti's banded tail swayed behind him gently. Recruiters. Of course. Recruiters into some Reachman's dungeon, maybe. It only got worse when the man spoke, and when the lumbering oaf started sniveling. Hearing the Dunmer speak was even worse, the very sound of his name being spoken was as wood to brass. Hesitantly, he replied. "...Who is...dhis..."Boss?"...vhe do not know of any boss around here."

[ysmirdragonofthenorth]

Cragslane Recruitment

[sadclown-rp]

The murmuring drew louder as someone seemed to get up and begin walking towards the small figure’s position. It didn’t seem like it was an investigatory gait, however; a slow, awkward, dumb amble. Like a bear, Ba’aijj thought, this one must be Nordic. Ba’aijj knows a Nord’s footsteps from a mile away. That only worked to his advantage now, and as he scurried up behind a tall shrub, he caught sight of the bastard. Tall, thickly-muscled to the point of being brutish---like great, big hams had been bound to his arms and slabs of beef had been draped around his neck. Closer and closer he drew, zig-zagging lazily, stumbling occasionally over a stone or a root. Inch by inch, rock by rock, he came closer, closer still, oblivious. Indeed, a true son of Skyrim. 

It was like a lightening strike, three things happening at once; one rehearsed, fluid motion, and the Khajiit’s nimble fingers flew back towards his quiver and drew a poisoned arrow. At the same time, he seemed to shoot from the foliage like a hiding Spriggan, and with his bow hand shot forward a stinging sucker-punch directly into the Nord’s square nose.  Nocking the arrow and freeing himself from the foliage, the beastman swung around the back of the Nord and glanced about quickly, locating the other odd scent he’d noticed earlier. A lone Dunmer sat in his camp, making himself right at home it seemed. Poachers. Thieves. Freeloading dim-wits, it seemed. Attention darting back to the larger of the two men, Ba’aijj stared daggers at him and pulled to full-draw, the long, jagged edge of the arrow caked in a foul-looking paste that practically oozed misery. “Give us one reason not to make Fat-Boy here into wolf-bait, Dunmer,” He projected loud enough for the seated man to hear and, in a quieter tone, spoke at the Nord, “Move, and We pin djou to the tree. Nothing stupid now, thief.”

[sadclown-rp]

The Storm of the Norsemen [Skyrim: Edmund & Hides-His-Eyes]

“Ah–…Decanus Hides-His-Eyes of the Third Expeditionary Contubernium.”

To be truthful, the Argonian was a little put-off by how forward and brash the young man was being. It said something about his gumption if he approached an area and then spoke to a fellow soldier as such, but that was the way of officers. Always had been. Wasn’t too much of a bother at the point thus-far. Still, wasn’t sure why this foreign officer of such apparently high power wanted him to know about his brother’s influence on his rank.

Before the Legate, the armored reptilian knelt and tucked a fist to his chest once more, bowing his already hooded head to avert his perceived gaze. Steel clinked on steel as the recruits behind him stepped back into their routines, and the salty air cast a gentle breeze nearby as the distant sigh of the waves crashing on the shore whispered to Solitude. With the next comment, Hides-His-Eyes stood up and set his arms across his chest, looking over the troops in the yard with a half-grin across his scaled lips.

“Ah, but the enemy is always moving, isn’t it now? Training does not start and stop with Ulfric’s band of dock-workers and cow-milkers.” The words seemed to float with a hollow buoyancy, almost as if the speaker had been hurt in some way by their meaning.

[sonofhighrock]

Edmund walks as he watches the soldiers training, seeing they are in good form and that they will be prepared. Knowing that the Stormcloak army is trained very well due to Ulfric who is a great strategist in the ways of military. He stops and strokes his beard, thinking of his grandfather and how he lead his men, hoping he can be as good of the leader in the army as he was. His eyes glance over at the Argonian. “They are training well, they’ll be no match for the Stormcloak army and I will use my abilities as much as I can. You have done good with the training Decanus.” He smiles at him and walks back over to the door to Castle Dour, and then looking back at the Argonian. “Is the General in a good mood?”

[sadclown-rp]

The Decanus shrugged, still wondering why the man spoke so cryptically. This Legate, if he was who he said he was, spoke in the manner more of a wizard than a militant—and that confused the Argonian. Quickly, he darted aside as the man paused to stroke his facial hair, pulling a soldier close and asking them to look over the trainees; he had business elsewhere to attend to. Great, fur-cloaked pauldrons seemed to jump on the broad Argonian's shoulders as he stepped, purposeful in his mission. Motioning for the door to be opened, two attendants hurried about the knockers, pulling the huge wooden portal open. "I.....as...good of a mood as he can be, I suppose," Hides-His-Eyes replied, one hand cupping the pommel of his short sword. "Please, do excuse me for interjecting, but if there's a security concern in the province, I feel that I should at least be familiar with what we're going up against—" He sounded rather strained now, his calm, almost sleepy composure now hardening to a calloused, concerned visage. "—At least then, I would be able to train the troops more efficiently for whatever they'll he fighting?" He followed into the stony chamber, much of the light in the room extinguishing as the doors shut with a rumble and grate behind them.

[ysmirdragonofthenorth]

Cragslane Recruitment

starter for @sadclown-rp

“Do I really have to do this? I’m allergic to cat fur, you know,” the bulky, heavily armored Nord complained as he straightened the massive steel warhammer strapped to his back. “I really don’t want to have to touch him if he declines. I will break out in a rash, and rashes really ruin my fair complexion, you know? No, of course you don’t; you’re Dunmer. My point is, she will fire me for that.” 

The Dunmer donned in leather rolled his red eyes. “We do get rashes, s’wit. And I’m pretty sure she hired you for that big warhammer you’re hauling around, not your skin. It certainly wasn’t for your brains,” he snarked.

“She said I have to look presentable and intimidating, y’know?! I’m the bouncer, after all!”

“You’ll be sleeping with the slaughterfish if you keep annoying the boss. She’s not interested. Just give up already,” the mer sighed, exasperated. He was, of course, referring to the boss’s slaughterfish pond, which she used to dispose of corpses - and sometimes, living individuals who had made the grave mistake of angering her.

“You know that she accepted the flowers I brought her!”

“Only because they happened to be alchemical reagents. She turned them into poison. They were useful, so she kept them. It’s that simple. Really. Do you want to be fed to the pit wolves instead? Those things eat a lot,” the Dunmer warned his less bright companion. “My point is, you really shouldn’t be fooled by her appearance. The boss is practically a Daedra in disguise. Keep your distance, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Do you think she’ll be impressed if I bring her the Khajiit?” the Nord asked hopefully.

“Probably not, but you might as well try: Less talking, more walking, you s’wit.”

The two of them continued past the nirnroot farm. Avrusa Sarethi eyed them suspiciously from afar, but went back to work. She had been wary of strangers ever since she had woken up one day to find all her nirnroots missing. She had reported the crime to the Riften guard, but the thieves were never caught - or the guards had been bribed to look the other way.

“The kid’s name is Ba'aijj. He was last sighted somewhere around these parts. Should be in the woods. He hunts to make a living. He’s supposedly a great shot, that’s why the boss wants to recruit him.”

“But what if… You know, he might say ‘no’?” the Nord questioned again.

“Then we let the boss do the convincing. And she can be very persuasive. Either way, our job is to haul him there. Whether he comes willingly is entirely up to him.”

It took them a while, but they eventually stumbled upon a small campsite in the woods, sheltered in a rock outcropping. “And now we wait for his return.”

[sadclown-rp]

The khajiit was rather grateful the conies in his bag had finally stopped wriggling about, as it’d grown tiresome trying to keep them from jostling all the arrows out of his quiver. Strange wonder, that was—you could snap a rabbit’s neck, and still, it’d wriggle about and try to kick. The same thing would happen to the desert snakes his sisters and he caught when they were young; they’d flop and whip about, trying to strike at them without a head that worked anymore, as if the soul kept on trying to fight it. That’s what his mother had told him, that the soul always stays in the body for just a few more seconds if it’s not ready to leave.

However, these thoughts didn’t linger much more than a moment, flashing by as the warm, hazy sun beat into the dampened air that made his coat fluff up in all sorts of sticky, undesirable ways. The khajiit leaped now, one rock to the other, pausing inquisitively on each to chart his path next with those large amber eyes that seemed to blaze in his mottled little head. ‘A head that seemed too big for such a little body’, the nords and orcs in this bar or the other tavern would tease, but who were they to judge? They were all dull, bored dockworkers, with families and responsibilities. Ba'aijj had no responsibilities now. He was a bachelor, on his own and living by his own set of rules, camping where he liked and poaching what he pleased. The slight frown on his face turned to a subtle little grin, a half-twitch of the lips that made his minute whiskers flinch in the air. Fur hood pulled up over his head and the trailing pelt over his shoulders, the bandit skipped from stone to stone, avoiding the fresh-fallen leaf litter on the ground and taking in the smells—

The smells. They were all wrong. He was near his camp, the familiar longbow-shaped tree that threatened collapse after a troll incursion not two days before, the rocky outcropping that formed a sort of lean-to for him to nestle under in the night, it was all…tainted. Someone had been here. Two someones, in fact.

Ba'aijj’s appearance immediately changed. A jovial little alley-cat one second, bobbing about the dark stones like a boy in a fairy tale, ceased to exist entirely. He stooped down, almost flattening himself to the ground and unslinging the smooth, dark green form of his An-Xileel bow. His breath alltogether ceased. He hung above the ground, stolidly suspended by the strength of his calves, tail wavering out behind him in an effort to counterbalance him in space.

He waited, listening for voices.

[sadclown-rp]

The Storm of the Norsemen [Skyrim: Edmund & Hides-His-Eyes]

“Ah–…Decanus Hides-His-Eyes of the Third Expeditionary Contubernium.”

To be truthful, the Argonian was a little put-off by how forward and brash the young man was being. It said something about his gumption if he approached an area and then spoke to a fellow soldier as such, but that was the way of officers. Always had been. Wasn’t too much of a bother at the point thus-far. Still, wasn’t sure why this foreign officer of such apparently high power wanted him to know about his brother’s influence on his rank.

Before the Legate, the armored reptilian knelt and tucked a fist to his chest once more, bowing his already hooded head to avert his perceived gaze. Steel clinked on steel as the recruits behind him stepped back into their routines, and the salty air cast a gentle breeze nearby as the distant sigh of the waves crashing on the shore whispered to Solitude. With the next comment, Hides-His-Eyes stood up and set his arms across his chest, looking over the troops in the yard with a half-grin across his scaled lips.

“Ah, but the enemy is always moving, isn’t it now? Training does not start and stop with Ulfric’s band of dock-workers and cow-milkers.” The words seemed to float with a hollow buoyancy, almost as if the speaker had been hurt in some way by their meaning.