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|BARBERMONGER - a one on one roleplay search forum > FANDOM > on whom the pale moons gleam|
|Posted by: warplane May 25 2018, 01:56 AM|
| In the cold lands of Skyrim, specifically in the northwest corner above Solitude, Cirion was very deeply despised by a large number of people, and it was the first time in his life that he had been significant enough to experience such a thing. As a Thalmor officer being fondled for the promise of a promotion to Justiciar, he was very constantly tossed from supervisor to supervisor, being plucked out of the crowds of his more enthusiastic peers to do the juicy tasks. Torturing a rebel worshipper until blood pooled on the dirt floor and his body slacked into the binds, going on a manhunt along the iced shores of the Sea of Ghosts and not feeling his toes for a week after his return, attending hushed, tense meetings with General Tullius and his Imperial devotees in Castle Dour discussing battle strategies and the ever-suffering limitations, at least at the Empire's expense, of the White-Gold Concordat. A treaty which was beginning to blur in his memory. He had never been one for memorizing texts, but the contents of the pact were sealed only into his memory by a chorus of harsh, quiet retorts by merchants and innkeepers, by the blood-gurgling cries of men, trembling within iron binds and staring hatefully at him through bloodshot eyes.
It wasn't as if he didn't feel dutiful to the Dominion, to his origins on the Isles. He was blessed to be gifted into the mer race of golden skin and tall bodies, the superior ones –– closest to the Aedra, supposedly superior in intellect and all other aspects too. He was, perhaps, just not a man of passion. He had never been. Life was dull, and no amount of slashing throats or drinking spiced wine with rulers or shooting fire from his fingertips would change it.
There was something about his assignment, however, something strange and absorbing about the land of Skyrim that he had never paid attention to until he arrived six months earlier. It was during his solo trek back to his station at the Embassy that he first became aware of this inconvenient interest of his. He was new, a young and gangly thing compared to the tight lips and smooth crow-feet eye creases of his betters. Bright eyed and perhaps still naive in the more important aspects of his life –– was that what it all was? Was that the cause of his fascination with the peaceful farmers quietly leading cows to their disadvantageous death at the hands of giants? Was his youth and inexperience the reason his hands trembled as dragons tore through the skies above while quiet, growing whispers sung of something called 'Dragonborn'? "He's going to save us from the World-Eater!" The farmer would declare to Cirion, temporarily blind to his race due to his inane joy of some old Nordic myth, slapping a bottle of Honningbrew into his hand and giving him a startling pat on his back. "Talos guide you!"
Something that was becoming most glaringly obvious was that, despite the snickering of his peers, the Dragonborn was not some stupid sort of Stormcloak spook tale. It was a real thing –– he was a real thing –– and the rumors became facts while Cirion grew even more restless. He figured that it was his disinterested demeanor that had lead him to his position in the first place. Somehow he seemed a more worthy candidate than the myriads of die-hards trembling with excitement and bloodthirst. Nobody wanted a bootlicker.
What would he do? How could he explore this new exciting realm of culture and people without betraying the very cause he had been born to defend? He figured he had been born into the wrong race, into the wrong era. The wrong something. The wrong family, perhaps, as blasphemous as it was to even entertain such a thing in the privacy of his own mind. These new, sinful improprieties of his did little to change his performance in ways that would arouse suspicion. Yet, still, his anxiety had begun to grow. It was only a matter of time before he screwed something up. The only solution was to ignore his growing fondness altogether. To whip it as harshly as he had been taught to whip the insurgent beasts who dared believe differently than his ruler.
Elenwyn's party –– that party –– was the third of its kind which Cirion had attended so far and, in its beginning, nothing particularly interesting or special. He stood amongst jarls and nobles, most of whom were either quietly avoiding him as well as his associates or smiling at him in a way that caused him to quietly avoid them, forcing small talk with the Jarl of Falkreath and matron of Riften about insignificant, dull things such as the taste of the bland Arenthian red wine or the 'lovely' weather that had accompanied either individual on their carriage ride up to the Embassy. He was sure that it would become comfortably crowded before too long, always with the same faces.
Except for one face. He didn't notice the man when he walked in. He was sure that he had been there for at least a few minutes before Cirion even grew aware of his presence, but when he finally glimpsed at him the interest was like a bug, itching at him at some indiscernible location at the edge of his pointed ears, pestering him quietly to look again, talk to him –– to do nothing in particular, to just think about the odd way he filtered through the guests, or the look he shared with the bosmer who was tending the bar. It was strictly none of Cirion's business, and it shouldn't be his interest either. His instincts were on alert nonetheless, and he wasn't sure if it was because he just knew there was something about the stranger that didn't quite fit or because he piqued the elf's interest in an embarrassing, childlike manner. After a while of forcing a blasé outlook on the whole thing, Cirion allowed himself to peak at him subtly, down his nose, just one more time because to be quite frank he was not that terribly hard to look at –– and to his absolute horror it was at that very exact moment that fate decided their eyes must meet.
|Posted by: beckquerel May 25 2018, 06:03 PM|
| when he was seven, waylas's mother had said he'd go on to do some good. maybe not right then, getting caught slipping a frog in his brother's bedroll, but sometime in the future he'd haul off and do good. he hadn't thought of her words in years, not until he'd stood on a mountain in a foreign land, swaddled up against the cold. to strike out on one's own was to start over, fresh, new. no mother hen watching over his shoulder, no father with his eyes too stern and his lips always curled downward. it was a breath of fresh air, skyrim. cold as he'd never felt it before, but fresh, and new, and exciting.
skyrim was an endless expanse of white and brown, all the snow and dirt mingling prettily with the sky until it became one great white nothingness in front of him. at night the two moons smiled down at him, and he loved to smile back, enchanted with the land as he was. for all that it was despised, for all that it was reviled, skyrim was a land of possibility; one merely had to reach out and claim a morsel of the wilds and make it into their own. he had known, at least vaguely, before coming here that there was to be more in his life than just farming. every young boy dreamed of something better, of a future beyond what his parents expected of him- and he was no better, for he had dreamed as a child and even now assumed that eventually, one day, something exciting would find him.
he hadn't necessarily expected that excitement to come from being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but that was how it had come to pass, and he could be thankful for it all the same. sometimes in the silent moments as he trekked across snowy plains or marshy pits he would remember the searing heat of dragon flame, or the booming voice that reverberated in his bones, taking residence there and creating an itch that could not be scratched. the blades had promised him the ability to scratch said itch, had regaled him with tales of ancient foes awakening again. he was a simple man, all things considered; he didn't rightly care about his duty so much as he felt a need, growing fiercer with each day, to become stronger and consume more. the dragons threw themselves readily to the slaughter, but it wouldn't do to just ignore the blades and their worries so he could go gallivanting across skyrim without a care in the world.
well, any more than he already had.
the thalmor embassy wasn't nearly as beautiful as the endless hills and mountains of the natural plain, but, well, it wasn't necessarily their fault they couldn't directly copy it. and it was beautiful enough, set out in a mountain and surrounded by towering pines adorned with snow and frost. the promise of the warmth within sang to him from so far away, delphine's words a whisper at the back of the mind. her friend would be here, to help him slip past the gathered audience and into the back. even as elenwyn's patience draws thin at his introduction, her lips curling around words meant to dig, he's not expecting much of a problem. either things would go to plan and he could go sleep for three days in an inn in solitude, or it would go horribly wrong and he'd spend hours hiding in the snow. there were no in betweens, no certainties whatsoever. it was just like every other task he'd been given, nothing new or surprising to be found.
not until, well, someone notices him bribing razelan. he's aware of eyes on him long before they truly make eye contact. it's a new feeling, being the center of attention; before he was dragonborn he was just a normal man. no one looked twice his way, not normally. not until he was sucking up dragon souls, not until he was some nordic tall tale come to life. it hadn't started to sink in, his importance, the way he drew heated gazes, curious or otherwise. this one is just on the side of curious, of hungry, even- but it's from a thalmor, and right now waylas wasn't particularly keen on standing out. that was the whole point of a distraction, after all. he lets his gaze linger a moment too long, not quite afraid, not even really stressed- but exhausted. it's been a long trek, to get from point a to point b of his life's story. one more complication wouldn't necessarily kill him, but it would sure be nice if things went his way, for once.
he flashes a blinding smile in the thalmor officer's general direction, only half aware of razelan standing and brushing past, drink in hand. he's caught, there, in the in between of a moment of silent consideration for the other man and another on the move, as though the gaze on him could stop him from his endless march forward. it ends as quickly as it came, though, with the other redguard's raised voice calling the guests to attention. the smile dims, and he shoots one last considering look at the thalmor officer, before turning heel and heading toward the bar with practiced speed.