Time did not forget Ysgramor.  The Legends will tell you of his battles against the Falmer, history will remember him for all time.  But there is one that legend does forget.  Few will recall Svanhidr, a trusted warrior and friend to Ysgramor.  Now, Eras later, it is your job to find out why.

RP Details:

Premise:  A group of people (your characters) enter a crypt to find it's secrets.  In the course of this story there will be time travel, puzzles and mystery solving.

Setting:  4E 172, Skyrim, underground.  This is during the Great war.  Click for timeline

Tone:  Serious/Dark  This RP will explore topics like racism and religion, but only as pertaining to Tamriel (real racism gets you insta-banned, be aware).  Remember, this is during the Great War, races are going to not get along well. 

Skyrim has decapitation, so if you can handle that, you can handle this RP.  Adult situations will however be kept to a minimum. 

I will not be killing player characters, but they will be put in great peril.

Character Rules:  Any of the ten races are allowed.  You can go with something else if you can convince me.  Your character cannot be overpowered, Dragonborn, one-true-hero-of-the-world or anything of that kind. 

Writing your character:  Your character should not be "this is joe the kahjiit hes an archer. hes awesome."  Your character should be like this "Joe wasn't the name he was born with, but as soon as J'oesha was out from under the thumb of his parents and the Thalmor, he knew he needed a change." 

Why?  Because this second one sets up why his name is Joe, and he doesn't like his parents or the Thalmor.  I would continue this with saying how he trained with a Dunmer archer until the Mer was killed, and Joe is in Skyrim looking for the  Dunmer's son to tell him his father's fate.  If you need help with this please PM me.

Character Types I'd like to see:  A Thalmor who believes in what they do; a Dunmer who sees the Beast races as nothing more than slaves.  A scholar with no skills in combat, you get the idea. 

Give your character a reason to be in Skyrim exploring a Crypt! 

Posting rules:  Must be a paragraph of writing.  Don't just write "Joe opens the door"  write that Joe is worried that if he opens the door something will kill him, and his fur is wet with sweat because he's freaking out. 

For now I'll say a week to write your post, but we'll talk about this once the RP gets started, really you get however much time you'll need.

Dovahzul amount:  Player and NPC dialogue will be in canon Dovahzul. 

Is this the RP for you?  What I'm looking for are people who are writers (or want to be, or just don't mind doing some writing), people who are willing to put the good of the story over their character doing cool things, people who want to work together to make a great story and people who are willing to try new things and stick around.

Joining:

Join by PM ONLY.  This way we can plan how your character comes in and work out the details together.

Cast in Order of Appearance:

Ruvgein - Sannit Arsabihru

Frinmulaar - Lucandomar

Hahdremro - Aeoline Lorethar

Zinrahzul - Debian Latus

Mey - Shozug gro-Molech

First Seed in southern Skyrim saw the sun melting away the snow one day, and snow attempting to reclaim its place the next.  Fog rolled off the ice in some spots, while mud and last year's grass showed through in others.

In amongst the watery browns and glistening white stood arches of hard stone, standing unravaged by time.  These arches lead to an inner keep guarded by only a door not moved for thousands of years.

Not far from the outermost arch stood a Dunmer.  His garb strangely unfitting to the northern climate, instead he appeared to have never left the Ashlands of Morrowind. 

Sannit Arsabihru’s eyes disappeared into the creases and folds that carved his face as he squinted in the sunlight.  He had grown too old to be left standing outside in the morning hours, far too old.  Branch-like hands grasped a walking stick to lean on, and he waited.

The scholars would come any moment now, the ones sent by the Thalmor to investigate this newly unearthed ruin.  And so he waited.

At the crossroads downhill of the newly unearthed ruins, Assistant Prefect Lucandomar son of Rumal was having a conundrum.

The Altmer paced about in tense strides, fuming. The auxiliary generously provided by some trite subset of the Cyrodiilic headquarters ought by rights to have already arrived. Certainly it was the day appointed; Lucandomar was not the breed of person to commit so grievous a misjudgment concerning times and places. But presently the meager phantom of a sun lay lethargically suspended at the aforecalculated angle, however, the dismal expanse within sight was characterised by a subtle yet pervasive absence of another soul of the High People's descent. Lucandomar granted himself a sigh as he stared at the slowly conquering local flora.

Those stalwart grey thorn-bushes were an apt representative for this miserable backwater. Superficially exotic to the cursory observer, they would reveal their true colours or, rather more rigorously, utter lack thereof, only after having caused the examiner to become entangled in a plethora of unseemly substances and structures. The natives, most likely far from coincidentally, were vessels to a host of qualitatively similar character traits: noncognitive multitudes with inexhaustible bickerings over trivialities and nary a thought any objective investigator would regard as civilised. It was not by any means a moral statement, even if a careless reader might conceivably be inclined to so imagine - purely an established conclusion drawn from methodically assembled corpora of evidence.

An early warning of a shiver ran through the scholar, paying no heed to the finely patterned traveller's robe around his slim physique. He was surer by the second that his assignment had been a poke in his stomach by the council running the Academy, and rightly so. To think that some races habitually perished after a career whose entirety amounted to less than the extent of his current studies was one of the rare sources of bewilderment for Lucandomar son of Rumal, for he was scarcely old enough to plausibly have a legitimate son of his own; by extension, the extraneous collection of aspects one was liable to hold as part of one's lifetime's achievements besides the academic was of decidedly low priority to him. First he would, in time-honoured custom, ascertain his rightful and proper status as the citizen whom his inherent capabilities had since birth projected before him, no matter the expenditure of time nor of other less vital resources. In this he was very firm.

During the incomplete albeit sluggish cycle of steps in which this line of thought followed its course, Lucandomar became unwavering in his conviction that the auxiliary had surely ended up lost, indeed quite possibly fallen victim to some lethal hazard or trap or trick of nature, and was thus no longer worth the wages paid dearly in body heat for every passing breath spent idly loitering in the given clime. He gathered up his sparse toolset, heaved it onto his shoulder, and, having confirmed with all six of his senses once more that no hostile entities were apparently forthcoming, stomped to the outermost arch of the imposing edifice.

Simultaneously recalling any scattered fragments of descriptions he had memorised about this site, Lucandomar scanned the visible outcroppings of the structure intently. The facade exhibited all the major signatures of late Draco-Nordic places of worship, as was admittedly to be expected by locale and context, though the arches appeared rather more ogee than triangular, which, the Altmer immediately out of scholarly prudence confessed, could conceivably have been the mere accumulated effect of prolonged compressive forces exerted by buildup of higher strata manifesting in detectable distortion, rather than any conscious stylistic determination on the part of their creators. Lucandomar allowed his gaze to drift downward, mentally peeling off the layers of detritus and topsoil. The columnar capitals had clearly not yet differentiated, which was promptly filed as a topic for later inquiry, and in full congruency therewith the columns themselves, even the most cylindrical of them, held no fluting discernible to the hasty eye - but there was a dark robed figure standing next to them. Lucandomar had the decency not to jolt.

The Altmer's official voice came out with as much power as one could bestow unto this barbaric tongue. "Dein hin haal, durfahliil! Wen suleyk ofan hi kos nau daar golt?"

Nearly every word muttered under Aeoline Lorethar's breath was a curse as she trudged along the road toward her destination. She could scarcely manage to keep from shivering despite the layers of furs and fabric covering her from head to toe. The minor warmth enchantments she'd put on her outfit were doing little to dissuade the frigid winds whipping across her face.

With her mood thus soured, Aeoline did not feel much respite when she reached the area marked on her map. Nordic ruins seemed so simplistic in comparison to the Ayleid structures to which she had previously been accustomed. She heaved a sigh and rubbed her long, slender fingers together in a futile attempt to warm them. She wished to return to Cyrodiil soon after this expedition was over.

A voice floated over the wind toward her, though she could scarcely identify any words it may have carried. She could tell by the timbre and accent of the voice that it was a fellow Altmer, at least. Perhaps this was who her superiors had instructed her to meet? Their orders were vague at best, even given the relative unimportance of her work in the eyes of most of the Aldmeri Dominion.

She came over the crest of a small hill and finally saw the ruins she was sent to investigate. Her immediate impression was that the barrow appeared suitably decrepit and lost to time, reflecting her opinion of the region as a whole. Her second impression was that there were figures near the apparent entrance of the ruins, and judging by their statures, they appeared to be Mer. She hoped these were the individuals she had been sent to assist. "Drem, fronne!" she called out to them, hoping not to startle them with her appearance. "Los hi fahdonne?"

Debian Latus pulled the cloak over his dark, dirty-brown hair to protect his head and ears before unclasping and opening the heavy wooden door that led out of the tavern. A biting cold wind greeted him. He hurried along though the main market area, past the railed edges of the wooden structures along the water channel, and toward the southern-most gate where two Nord guards stood to allow his passage outside the city.

What was that old fool thinking? thought Debian to himself as he finally put his roughly-sketched map away, sure that the upcoming path that ran parallel to the northern side of the Jeralls would lead him to his destination.

Master Dominus never stopped lauding this excavation and research project, and what does he do now? He just decides to stay behind in Riften for a while!

It was certainly a relief to get some breathing room, but now he was in charge of meeting of other researchers. He readjusted his bag of supplies on his shoulder, then headed west toward the main path that led out of Riften.

The Rift region in Skyrim was situated on the northern side of the Jerall mountain range that bordered Skyrim and Cyrodiil. It was certainly impressive in the breadth, and served as a nest for many Dwarven and Ancient Nordic structures. It was one such newly-discovered barrow that supposedly initiated a group venture for the sake of a “shared brotherhood of enlightened scholars’ that his master touted so often. A sudden gust of wind brought him out of his thoughts as he started again down the path past a local farm where the workers were already hard at work tending to daily chores. What would normally have been a fairly simple walk was made much more difficult by the melting snow, mud, and muck churned up from the foot and wagon traffic. He had already given up on keeping the bottom of his leggings cleaned, and trudged southward.

After about 10 minutes of more walking, the site finally came into view and voices could be heard up ahead. It had to be it -- the familiar shape of a Nordic Barrow was unmistakeable. Finally. He quickened his pace as his awaiting party came into view

“Pruzah grind, fahd..”

He cut his words off mid-sentence and a frown grew quickly on his face. He grit his teeth hard. Elves. They were all Elves...

The first arrived.  An Altmer, a learned man by the way he studied the world around him with that certain glint you see in the inspired class of people.

“Zu'u Sannit Arsabihru.”  He said with a quick, sharp nod.  “Zu'u pel iniil do daar golt.  Nu, hi ni mindok zu'u.” 

Now the second came into view before he could finish speaking.  Her voice that of one not wishing to be late, by the way she called out to them.

"Daar golt Svanhidro Praan, ahrk zu'u hin aak."

And the third, from a direction slightly different than the Altmer took, stopped dead with his mouth hanging open.   Sannit, not being one with the time or patience to repeat himself or alleviate the boy’s worries, simply stated, “Arsabihru, kinbokiil.”

He sized them up in a single glance.  Pitiful!  Wretched children, all of them!  They barely understand their own reflection; how could they possibly understand the importance of these ruins?  Of these relicts of a time long since faded?

No matter.  If he is to be given children, so be it.  He would have to mature them, if they couldn’t for themselves.  And by the Gods’ they won’t live long if they don’t.

He turned to face the small set of steps leading up the heavy metal doors employed by the Ancient Nords in times past to keep their holy grounds safe from unwanted guests.  He beckoned with his free hand for them to follow.  He took the stairs quickly in his stride, knowing if he paused his legs may refuse the reminding steps.  His walking stick tapping dirt buried stone in a consistent rhythm.   

Before this door had given him trouble to open, but now he turned to his charges with arms ushering them onwards.  “Bex!”

The green skinned elf was setting camp inside the tomb, around the antechamber. A few bedrolls were laid on the greyish stone floor, circling a small campfire. Not far away, a rucksack containing a set various plates, bowls, and tankards was resting against a pillar. This rudimentary camp was only temporary, since the expedition is expected to begin today. Shozug was contracted by someone from the nobility to escort a group of scholars inside freshly discovered nordic ruins. Unable to bring anyone else with him, he had to learn the place by himself. He scouted the first few rooms ahead, but was ordered to not venture alone.

Done with his first task, Shozug took a sip of his waterskin. Upon receiving the order to open the door, the Orc stood up, making his steel plated armor cling with each movement. Laying his hands on the door, he flexes his muscles and pries the stone door open. Glancing at those outside, Shozug notices most of them are Altmer. Elves... obviously. Being in Skyrim for so long had accustomed the old Orc to the local population, their traditions... and their racism. While it would feel hypocritical for him to believe he his above those damned elves, Shozug felt more Nord than Mer.

Now, with further observation, he could see a man, hidden under a cloak, yet Shozug could smell his northern smell from here. The lad could only be from around here, to be willing to navigate to this place. The Orsimer's hand ran through his greyish rugged beard. How was he supposed to assure the safety of four academics by himself? With his inner questioning, he clanged his trusty greatsword, Oshrakh, against the stone foundations of the barrow. What is it? You need a sharpening? Yes, my dear, I'll get to it eventually.

Snapping back to reality, the Orc addressed the group.

"Drem yol lok."

Then, moving his attention to the hooded figure closer to him he muttered in a more reasonable level volume of speaking.

"Nii vosaraan."