Skyrim Legends ( accepting )

[Anachronism]

Beck carried his helmet tucked under his arm as he followed the priest of Arkay through the cemetery. The ground sank beneath his boots, betting them slightly muddy, but he wasn't paying attention to that.
"Here it is, lad. The Helgen memorial." The old priest ushered, laying a hand on Beck's shoulder. "I'm sorry for your loss, I'll be in the temple if you need me."
Beck watched the old man retreat from the newest section of the graveyard, reserved for those who died that day. He looked almost pained to be alone again, but he turned his gaze to the burial stones and saw just how many flowers had been lain on the graves. It was of some comfort to know that he wasn't the only one who felt something.

"I...." He glanced around, making sure the graveyard was truly empty. "I am so, so sorry." He whispered, getting choked up for a minute. He knelt before a cluster of graves, with hastily inscribed names in the rock. These were the men he'd grown up with, trained with, fought beside, but somehow when they were felled in battle, he survived.
"The World-Eater came from the skies, and We heard Tullius yell, and..." He sat cross legged in front of the grave, staring into the face of his guard's helmet as if he was talking to another guard. "...and we ran, you know, to regroup, and Holn got grabbed, and we....we tried to save him but we couldn't. We just, we were too slow and he dropped Holn from really high up, and--" He recollected in a rambling mumble, grip on his Helmet hardening.

[true royalty.]

As soon as they reached the Jarl's Longhouse, the oak door bursted open and a Falkreath guard, evident by his ugly helmet and pants, dashed out, only to fall flat on his butt after he bumped into the tall, annoyed figure of Falkner. "B-by the Gods, is that a suit made from the bones of a Drago-" The guard began, still staring at the master and apprentice, but Falkner frowned and pulled the man up by the forearm.

"Ignore the armor, soldier, and tell me what you were rushing for." Falkner commanded, his natural authorative voice instantly bringing the man into a salute. Falkner smirked. He still had it.

"Yes sir! There's been reports of a dragon outside of the village gates!" The guard yelled in his outside voice. Falkner's amber eyes widened, and he unsheathed his ebony blade, a scowl forming on his face.

"Another o-...," he trailed off, his frown disappearing. Falkner sighed, sheathing his blade and rubbing his temples. "Tell the Jarl that we took care of it."

"But-"

"Now."

Falkner gave Atlas a sheepish smirk, slamming the door in the guard's face and walking back down the cobble stairs. "My IQ dropped from that."

[Sperophim]

{I'm going to do something with Orra now.}

Orra sighed as she walked to the inn. She felt where she had been cut by that Dark Brotherhood agent's daggers. Orra swore under her breath when she noticed a couple cuts in her armour. At lease there was a Blacksmith in town...
When Orra reached the inn, she rented a room and changed into her normal clothes. Then Orra carried her cut armour to the blacksmith. When she asked if he could fix it, he just told her that she'd have to buy a new set.

"A new set?!" Orra exclaimed. "I don't have that kind of money right now!"

"I'm sorry." The blacksmith said apologetically. "Your armour is made out of leather. It's not like I can just pound on another piece to cover the hole like I can with metal."

Orra cursed loudly. Maybe she could repair the armour herself? Pfft. As if. Orra could barely sew her own dress when it ripped, let alone repair her armour. Orra sighed.

"Alright." She said, as if talking to a small child. "I know you have to make a living. I shouldn't complain about the price. Maybe next time."

Orra picked up her armour and headed back to the inn, thinking. What was she going to do without armour? Orra made most of her money as a mercenary. Without a decent set of armour, no one would hire her, no matter how skilled she was. Orra wondered how long it would take to make enough money getting tips as a bard. A long time, probably. It looked like she was going to be in Falkreath for a while.

[Stromae]

"That was a bit violent don't you think?" Atlas stood at the end of the stairs, waiting patiently for his Mentor to return. He could practically hear him yelling at the guard from a mile away. "Sooo... How about that mead?" He had a small smile on his face as Falkner past him, causing the young argonian to follow suit.

[true royalty.]

"The mead shall flow, Atlas my friend." He grinned, the multitude of scars on his face crinkling at the movement. The man led way towards the inn, Dead Man's Drink, looking forward to the warm atmosphere, heavy mead, and a nice cut steak and crispy bread. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he sat down and actually had a nice meal.

As soon as the inn's door came into view, Falkner opened the door with a gauntleted hand, the occupants of the tavern/inn combo all glaring at the door, staring at the two men. Falkner ignored them, and the muttering about his 'fancy Dragonbone armor', opting to head straight for the barkeep.

"Bottle of mead for me and my scaly friend here." He smirked, slapping a small pouch of gold on the table, "And get us some steaks, medium rare." As the barkeeper sighed and went into the kitchen, Falkner leaned against the counter, giving Atlas a glance.

"See anyone noteworthy?" He asked his apprentice, randomly testing the younger man's observational skills. He, of course, had already spotted the elven female carrying torn leather armor, but he wanted to see if Atlas would catch it.

[Anachronism]

Beck poured his heart out, continuing on his rant for quite some time. "And I tried to fight to the death to protect you all, but Arkay would not have me." He lowered his gaze to the ground, unwilling to view the graves. "But I will avenge Helgen. I will fight for all of you, to my last breath." His voice shook, and he fiercely wiped tears from his eyes, unwilling to allow himself the luxury of being able to break down.
"I hope the mead in Soverngarde is grand--just don't drink it all before I can join you." He sniffed, smiling sadly not only because they were gone, but they were probably going to drink all the damn mead just to mess with him. Shoving his helmet on his head to hide the fact that he'd teared up on multiple occasions. He rose slowly from his kneeling, standing in front of the memorial with balled fists. He gave a curt nod at them out of respect, calming his breathing, before he began to walk away, when talk of dragons reached his ears.
"Dragons?" He asked, bitterly, before he could stop himself. Luckily he was far enough away that they may not have heard him. He didn't look like the typical guard, per say, as he had switched out his gear with better items, but he kept his armor and helmet the same.

[Stromae]

"See anyone noteworthy?"

Oh God. Atlas wasn't that good at spotting peculiar people in a crowd, he could have at least specified his request. "Anyone noteworthy..." The young mage sighed and squinted, staring out at the crowd of strangers. All of their faces looked gruff and aggressive, most were men except for a select few who were probably maids cleaning up after the messes the customer's managed to make. He huffed as he began to look around, spotting something or someone that looked different from the rest, expression wise. "What about her?" He nudged Falkner as he pointed to the young wood elf who was holy her leather armor. "She looks kinda different." Atlas didn't know what he was saying when he said that, they all looked different.

[Sperophim]

Orra stomped through the inn to the room she had rented earlier. Orra huffed and stuffed her armor in the chest, not caring how it was folded or anything like that. She hound out in her room for a while, counting her gold and trying to figure out how long it would take her to buy new armor. Orra sighed. It wouldn't take as long as she first thought, but it was longer than she wanted to wait. Eventually Orra went out to the main area and ordered a drink. Maybe she could play a few songs here later.

[true royalty.]

Falkner smirked, turning back to the bar as the barkeeper came back with their mug of mead, and two plates of Mammoth steak. "Yep. She's probably distressed. Repairing leather armor is a bit hard for the regular blacksmith." He responded, grabbing his mug and plate. The man sat down at an empty table nearby, close to the shadows, as his gaze stayed on the lady. The man glanced over at Atlas, taking a bite out of the tough, medium-rare meat.

"Do you think she'd pay if I fixed it for her?" He asked, using his masterful control over his voice to throw the question near her ears as well, although to anyone else other than Atlas and the girl, it sounded like a whisper.

[Sperophim]

Orra shifted when she heard someone talk about repairing her armour, but otherwise didn't do anything. Besides, Orra wasn't desperate enough to jump at the first opportunity to get her armour fixed- not yet atleast. And another thing- if someone was commenting on her armour, that means someone was watching her. Orra should be cautious.