Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-3293219-20141207202844/@comment-5735114-20141210230729

"Take your... bah! When was the last time I'd heard a please outta that prick?" murmured a grizzly-looking man bitterly as he rowed a small boat northwards. If not for his distinctive Altmer eyes, he could have been mistaken for a Nord. He had an unkempt bush of brown hair upon his head that concealed his ears, and a pathetically unmajestic wispy goatee to match. He frequently wondered why, if there existed spells to pick locks, were there no spells for growing facial hair? It was a mystery that haunted him to the very day.

"I swear, one of these days I'm gonna..."

The mumbled theat was an absolutely hollow one. His brutality was nearly unrivalled, especially amongst his proud and aloof race, but he knew that a living ally was of more use than a dead one. Plus, a drop of blood given willingly was equivalent to a million spilled in combat. His magic worked in an odd way; it was not powered by magicka, so it was useful for taking the fight to the Empire without getting detected, but it cost him blood.

He could replenish it by absorbing it in combat, and he had no idea how, but the process was apparently extremely inefficient. Or, he could use a slow magical ritual to merge fresh blood with his own. He didn't have time for that in combat, so the blood had to be willingly given. The Prince was particularly willing to provide blood in exchange for mrecenary work of sorts. So a deal was struck; every week, he would donate a drop of his precious blood, and in return would get his blows against the empire.

"One day, Adagio will feel the wrath of Garnaril!"

The ferocity with which he gestured was enough to make the boat nearly tip. Garnaril slowly brought his hands down and gingerly continued paddling. He had no clue why the Prince was so interested in Windhelm. Maybe he was just pleased to see the Adamantines win and wanted to keep that going. It did sound like the Beumanics to keep battering the same point until the mages eventually ran dry, and claim it.

This one'll be fun...

The Summerset Isles had already disappeared over the horizon, and after a very long and dreary number of hours, the coast of Cyrodiil was becoming visible. Garnaril, who had begun to slow down out of mainly boredom, picked up the pace. He also hated water, and cursed the fact that he was working for a man on an island.

''After this is over, I'll work for someone in southern Skyrim. Or maybe Cyrodiil. Once everyone stops being idiots. ''

Then a thought occured to him.

''Once everyone stops being idiots, I can't go about killing for fun and consuming their blood. By then, the mages will have to be 'polite' and junk... ''

Meh.