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Post by Tom Bombadil on Apr 10, 2009 22:29:54 GMT
Messala slowed his pace and looked behind him at the sound of a fast-approaching person. In doing so, he saw Zanna running after him, the mechanical dragon clinging to her side. "Messala," she said, winded, "I want... to come..."
"Very well," was Messala's perplexed reply. "But there's no hurry, we're not to leave for a few days yet." As he walked, he put one hand over his face to block the sun's glare, and he saw that the docks were ahead of them; the mast of the Partisan was in view. "Go and get whatever you wish to bring with you, and come down to the ship. Then we can assign you a cabin, and you can adjust to the ship, if you've never been on one before. Or you can come there now, and get your things later. It doesn't matter."
Privately, Messala was a bit worried, with some justice, about how Zanna and some of the other passengers would fare on this sort of trip. If none of them had been on a sea vessel before, a journey into Argonia might not be the most...pleasant...experience.
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Fomlir, avoiding eye contact with the scout, stammered incoherently for a few moments. "Well then, eh- if you want- I mean, until the- if you're here about the invitation, then- the captain can - look, the baron's here! Go talk to him." Relieved, the Bosmer pointed emphatically toward the two approaching figures that were now in sight of the ship, one of whom being Messala.
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Post by Simmo33 on Apr 11, 2009 11:00:56 GMT
Liniad watched as Messala and the woman with the strange, metal dragon-like creature left the lodge.
He thought about following them to the docks, but didn't want to leave Alyssa on her own. He remained sat down and glanced over at her. Liniad could see she was a necromancer. The fact she carried a coffin on her back was the only clue he needed.
Is there a body in there? What use would anyone have with a corpse anyway, apart from use in medical study.
He turned round to face her and shuffled in his seat, getting comfortable.
"So," he said, "tell me a bit about yourself."
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Post by Chaos 303030 on Apr 11, 2009 11:47:06 GMT
The elf turned to her and she was caught off guard. She gave a yip and a jump in her seat and fell out onto the floor, hard. She giggled a bit after that. She stirred up some dust and a nord looked at her in a funny way from the corner of the room.
"Well, my name is Alyssa Stormfield, but some people call me Alyssa the Mad. Or Lyssa. Or Lyssa The Mad. " She dusted her robes off and stood up, sprightly leaping to her feet. She pointed to her coffin in the corner of the room.
"People usually reserve 'The Mad' for when they see Clyde, or my experiments; either when they're killing someone, or doing my chores." She smiled. "I reserve studying them for when I'm comfortably at home. Or in private."
"I'm a necromancer, obviously. Legal, though. I have papers. It isn't really my fault, that I'm a necromancer. Its a matter of parenting. " She paused and looked sheepishly at her feet. "I guess its sorta...in my blood." She laughed nervously. She changed her pace, however.
With a slightly more upbeat tone, she decided to go with Messala. "We should probably follow those two down to the docks. Get ready, 'n all." She smiled and weaved through the crowd with a quick pace, heaving her coffin over her shoulders.
The room's activities stopped, for the most part; many patrons had just mistaken her for some adventurer with bad luck in choosing caves. But now, it was clear what she was. The stepped aside and she put up her hood, looking at her feet and shuffling out into the cold. She could feel their eyes on her the whole way out, digging into her. She knew she was a pariah. But there was nothing she could do about that.
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Post by Vrek on Apr 13, 2009 6:23:08 GMT
Tyrol couldn't help but chuckle at the poor Bosmer's expense. As he tapped his feet and quietly patted his hands on his thighs, following an unheard beat, he wondered about the curious little man. He was probably just naturally shy or nervous, as intimidating was never something the scout would call himself.
Out of the mostly incoherent mumblings, though, he clearly heard the elf point out the baron. "Yeah, I think I will," Tyrol said to Fornlir, replying to his recommendation he speak with the baron. "Thanks for good distraction, guy." He jogged off, waving behind him.
Though the baron and the other were far across the way, it didn't take him long, even at a mere jogging pace, which, admittedly, could match an average man sprinting. As he neared, any doubt that this was the baron dissipated. It wasn't the fine clothes, nor the trained walk the man held that proved it, no. It was the girl walking alongside him. With a pair of odd goggles on her head, and an even odder metallic... thing on her shoulder, she fit perfectly the sort of description of character that seemed to flock to jobs like these. What else could he expect? A zombie butler? A boxing templeman? Who knew.
He slowed to a stop, perhaps a bit closer to the pair then necessary, but he didn't let that stop him. He stuck out his arm to the man, and said with a nod, "Baron Messala," He turned his head, and nodded to the girl, "Young Lady," He turned back to the Baron and continued, "Tyrol Mycroft, at your service. Been waiting for you here."
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Post by Tom Bombadil on Apr 20, 2009 3:26:26 GMT
Messala gripped the man's hand and inclined his head to him. "Baron Gratius Messala; a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my good man." He made a quick study of the man: no distinguishing features, but no crippling deformities either. Looks like a competent fellow, nothing to complain about.
"My apologies for the wait, I have been dealing with three others who have expressed interest in this expedition, one of whom stands in present company," he added, with an incline of the head to Zanna. "I presume you are here about said expedition? If so, we can get you properly sorted out on the ship momentarily, along with Miss Renette- if you wish to do so, of course, milady," he clarified to Zanna.
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Archon was a miserable post. One might have thought of somewhere this far from Cyrodiil as being exotic, colourful, and exciting. But one would have been right only in a certain kind of sense, and it was not the sense in which Numerius Amatius would have thought. Amatius, the ranking official of Archon's For Whitemoth, had pictured a rich coast, elaborate architecture, and beautiful women. Of course, Amatius had then had little concept of what kind of a place Black Marsh was.
Instead, he found himself in a place with considerably less wealth than he had imagined, architecture that was mostly Imperial, due to the Argonians having the sense to not attempt permanent settlement, food that had made him violently ill for his first week, and women that were by vast majority beautiful by only native standards. And it was a boring post, as well. The natives rarely made a noise about anything; the Argonians fared better in the marshes, and they knew it. The Argonians that had settled were perfectly content to remain Imperial citizens. In fact, many of the Imperialized natives found themselves well-suited to settled life. A few of them had taken up using Western agricultural techniques in an effort to harvest certain fungi that had medicinal qualities. Others yet found themselves interested in a few Imperial plays that had found their way there from an author in Morrowind. There was hardly a need for an Imperial fortress at all. In fact, the arrival of an Imperial-commissioned delivery was the most interesting event of the past few months.
The whole ordeal had caused quite a stir in the city. When the ship arrived in harbor, the sailors that came from her began to spread remarkable stories about the foreign lands they had seen: fresh rumors from Akavir. Amatius himself caught wind of a few of these stories, and was even more taken aback when the Imperial diplomats from the ship made it abundantly clear that the cargo with which they had arrived was to remain securely within Fort Whitemoth until further notice. Three large crates- all stored in the lower levels of the fortress, under watch by at least two men at a time.
Amatius' inquiries were turned away. He was only assured by the diplomats that they were very valuable, and that they were sure (or hopeful) that they would be taken away by the intended transports soon enough- both not at all satisfying answers for the Imperial officer.
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