Enthuz22
Member
“Power is control of ourselves, through self-awareness and having the strength to accept worldly truths. We misunderstand power, and therefore we misunderstand ourselves and the world around us, and we lie to ourselves and fall into corruption, which is evil incarnate; and there is no justice to be done of this evil except for a swift and brutal end.” - Enthuz22
Ιɴ-cнαrαcтer
[Turdas, 24th of Last Seed, 4E 201]
“I call you to hear my words today because of an urgent matter that you are all aware of: war.” Kishan Braudil stood on the execution stage just within Solitude's walls, standing before many faces, many familiar and more he did not recognize. Behind him, off to the sides, stood three bodyguards; although he had payed them well, Kishan feared that someone else could have payed them more for his head than Kishan had payed them to protect his back if the mob – or part of the mob at least – would become hostile and attempt to attack him. They were mercenaries, and although he had spoken to them long enough to understand what type of men they were, he still gave no trust to anyone, least of all the large group of mixed bodies before him. “A civil war that will never end. A civil war that would claim whether Skyrim will be an individual province with no foreign connections whatsoever, or an open trading state. I am on neither side; not both. I am a Nord and I fight to keep Skyrim safe and successful. War, is not safe! War is not success! I fight against war, for peace.”
He turned and paces to the right side of the stage, which to the lot was to their left. “I have a plan – nay, a few plans – that if enabled with allies, will take to action and, in the long run, save not only Skyrim herself but Tamriel. The Dragonborn is not here with us today to claim neutrality, so I stand in his place; a figure to keep both sides of the raging mountain rivers – Stormkin on one side and Redeemers on the other – from flooding the land between them. I need your help; I need your trust, your blades, and your mind. Peace must be our only short-term end! The possibilities are endless, and almost all end in ruin and chaos and death! WE GO THIS PATH NOW! I know can make our own path! And I know what tools we need in order to do so, and therefore I know how we can achieve peace vital and strong enough to keep a nation saturated for eras yet to come! We have sunk low, and I am here to provide support to raise us back so we can once again feel the glory of the sun on our faces!”
He paces back and stands in the center of the execution stage. “Both leaders from our previous civil war are dead, now. Ulfric Stormcloak believed that once the people saw truth, they would continue to fight for it even when he was long gone! General Tullius held in belief that the nation is stronger together fighting for an honorable and successful cause, than fighting battles confused and disoriented! Both were right, and yet both were wrong.”
He stepped forward two steps and swept his gaze across the large group of people, holding a few of his eyes. Already he had spotted the grim face of an ally, and for that he was both glad and disquieted. “Fight with me. Meet me this coming Mordas at the neutral Fort Hraggstad at midday if you are interested. If you do not know where the Fort is, stay and I and my friends here will mark it on your map. Thank you.”
He stepped back. Kishan Braudil was a generally handsome man, with a smoother complexion than he normally appeared with, for Kishan was a ranger who used to set up base in Morthal before he was forced from it's murkwoods by Stormkin (who he generally disliked in the first place; he strained to keep this to himself to avoid conflict) who reclaimed the dreary little paranoid town. He had managed to slip away, although he had the feeling that they didn't care that much and most likely just let him go, seeing as they were not being overly slack.
His hair was dark brown, of medium length; he had cut it just that morning and trimmed his beard, which had grown thick, so it was once again neat and thin. His eyes were grey with flecks of pale green. Kishan's cheekbones were high and thin, his jawline high and wide, with a thin long nose and flat eyebrows curved downward at the edges. His armor was of leather-make, with a leather quiver-bond across the chestplate; his quiver hung at his right shoulder, his dark murkwood bow's curved and lines peering over his right shoulder and back of his head as well. He bore only one glove, which covered only three of his fingers, being an archer's glove; it was worn and bent, and well-loved and cared for, as was his arrows and bow especially. A sword hung at his waist, with a straight spine and clutched one-sided edge, with a curved hilt with the likeliness of a black wolf with it's eyes closed, and is best described as a fancy cleaver. It's sheath proved that it was used noticeably less that the bow, and his stance suggested that he was wary and weary, but not quite fearful or shy or bold in front of these many people, for he was more fearful of what type of people they were than anything else, generally speaking.
He stood in front of this mob, scanning the faces among the crowd, tense and stubborn-jawed, waiting for their first movement, for he was unsure if anyone would attempt to assassinate him for his daring. People were fearful at these times, especially, and careless at times whilst at other times being too aggro. He was not ready to turn his back on any of them. And I will not, Kishan thought, relaxing his limbs slowly and turning to the right of the execution stage, pausing at the top of the stairs and staring at the lot of them, most staring back. If that is how it will be, let them make the first move. I will take violence here only for defense, if necessary. Enough people have died already.
[This SkyBlog of the 18+ thread No Mercy will be updated whenever I have a chance; I'll aim for weekly; no promises.]
