Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-3293219-20140407143747/@comment-5735114-20140418144108

The Bosmer assassin approached Chorrol, the smokestacks and factories behind the city walls becoming more and more intimidating as he approached. Walking up to the East gate of the city, he saw a guard standing there, wearing some odd kind of armor and holding a large gun in his hands.

When he saw the assassin, he cried, “Stop! You must show registration before entering the city!”

Registration…?

“Since when do I need registration to enter a damned city?”

The guard was now pointing his gun at the assassin. “I won’t ask you again.”

“Fine, fine, give me a minute.”

The Bosmeri assassin rummaged around in his various bags and satchels, ever aware of the gun pointing at his head, when he finally managed to find a rolled up paper.

He proudly unrolled it and showed it to the guard, who pretended to examine it carefully. In reality, the guard couldn’t care less. He’d just been instructed to require everyone to display registration upon entering Chorrol, and he’d done just that.

The assassin stood as the guard appeared to be checking over his paper. It was far from his; amongst the only things similar were the race. However, the examination concluded without incident, and the guard waved in the Bosmeri assassin.

Walking in, the assassin saw the familiar sight of factories and smokestacks, only they were much closer this time. The road appeared almost to be in a canyon, surrounded by giant walls of metal.

Though it was midday, it was hard to tell. The smoke obscured the sky, hardly shifting with the wind, and streetlights on either side of the cobblestone street bathed everything in a dim yellow light.

Some of the factory workers, most wearing hard hats and other protective apparel of that sort, were leaning against the metal factories, smoking a pipe or rushing to eat a small lunch so that they could return to work. Others ran to and fro on the road, some carrying small packages and others going empty handed.

The assassin looked around and this, and felt only disgust. Chorrol used to be a much nicer place…

Finally making it out of the factory jungle, the assassin arrived in a small marketplace, almost completely devoid of life. Only a few merchants still stuck to their trade and did not succumb to the lure of factory work, and even fewer people now bought their goods.

Ignoring them, the assassin looked around quickly, trying to find his destination. Eventually finding it, he walked over to a thin cobblestone street adjacent to the one plagued by factories. The smoke still covered most of the sky, though it mainly went up and was thus thin enough on the nearby roads to have some sunlight shine through.

The street the assassin was on was dedicated to large warehouses, holding the fruits of the factory workers’ labor. Walking past five of them, the assassin found the one he needed. Entering Warehouse 6, the assassin saw a room that was seemingly devoid of anything, including light.

<p class="MsoNormal">The assassin flicked a light switch, and the same yellowish tinge as from the lights outside coated the gray surfaces of the empty warehouse.

<p class="MsoNormal">“C’mon, I know you’re in here…!” the assassin called out.

<p class="MsoNormal">He heard someone groan, and suddenly the warehouse was much less devoid, holding crates full of potions of all assortments. In the back, a Khajiit toiled away over an alchemy table.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Mind telling this one when you’re going to come, so that he doesn’t have to hide everything? Z’shal has told you a thousand times…”

<p class="MsoNormal">

<p class="MsoNormal">Name: Z’shal

<p class="MsoNormal">Gender: Male

<p class="MsoNormal">Race: Khajiit

<p class="MsoNormal">Age: 42

<p class="MsoNormal">Appearance: Skinny build, but tall. Light brown fur and light green eyes.

<p class="MsoNormal">Class: Alchemist

<p class="MsoNormal">Weapons: Blacklight, a blackened glass sword with a silvery metal that has a permanently applied paralysis poison

<p class="MsoNormal">Armor: Usually just wears clothes

<p class="MsoNormal">Backstory: Ever since he was a child, Z’shal was an odd Khajiit. He did not show interest, or even much skill in the traditional Khajiit skills, such as thievery or sneaking about, undetected. He was never one for Skooma, and stayed away from Moon Sugar whenever possible. However, where he did show promise was alchemy. When he was a teenager, he was already known to be a good alchemist in the surrounding towns, and became one of the better-known alchemists of Elsweyr by the time he was 20. However, the limited amount of ingredients and alchemists eventually ended up driving Z’shal away from his homeland. Being the headstrong young person that he was, he deemed it important to go to Skyrim, so he took a number of carriages, and even walked some of the way, until he eventually arrived in Falkreath. He was most surprised to find the stony welcome he got from the Nords, but found himself in good fortune when a Khajiit caravan arrived the next day, and invited him in. For the next few years, he wandered Skyrim along with the caravans, marveling at the mountains and wide grasslands. This all changed, however, when he agreed to accompany a Redguard named Zarn on a quest of his. Eventually, Zarn ended up dying and Z’shal was quite impacted, becoming bitter. Setting up a stall in Whiterun, Z’shal saw a good deal of business, despite a rather boring and repetitive number of years. However, the purge drove him away from yet another province. Concerned with the proximity to Winterhold to the north, Morrowind to the east, and High Rock in the west, Z’shal fled south to Cyrodiil, away from the war. Finding that his alchemy services were not entirely legal in Chorrol, where he arrived, he began a black-market trade of potions, determined to keep his trade. Eventually, he managed to convince everyone that Warehouse 6 was haunted, and found a place to work.

<p class="MsoNormal">

<p class="MsoNormal">“Sorry…”

<p class="MsoNormal">“No, really, Arnthir… What is it you want, this time?”

<p class="MsoNormal">Anrthir sighed. Z’shal was a miracle worker with potions, but there was no working with him.

<p class="MsoNormal">“D’you know any place with the initials F.F southwest of here?”

<p class="MsoNormal">Z’shal turned away from the alchemy table momentarily. “Why?”

<p class="MsoNormal">Arnthir walked up to Z’shal and gave him the note. After reading and thinking about it for a few moments, Z’shal gave the note back to his Bosmer friend.

<p class="MsoNormal">“You moron… Fort Farragut, southwest of Cheydinhal…”

<p class="MsoNormal">Arnthir groaned, thanked Z’shal for the help, and walked out of the warehouse. Sulkily, he began walking back the way he came.