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The Tavern 'The Drunken Alit' in the Imperial City is one of the filthiest dives in the empire. It had been the haunt of lowlife, criminals and riff-raff for years. Now a charismatic and beautiful young female wood-elf called Fairgoth is stirring them up, pointing out that even their livelihood is put at risk if so many are killed and pointing out that there are rich pickings to be had off corpses.
Once you have made your first post please interact with others who join up until you are advised of your departure time to the front. This will not be for a day or two as each leader will want to teleport a group rather than individuals. Teleporting forces one by one could be too dangerous. Who knows what they will be facing? If you are there alone, have a look round and describe (as you see it) the tavern, the abbey ruin or the mountain scenery.
The story picks up from where it was left in the original thread.
The Drunken Alit If you would like to join this camp, post in this thread.
MultiQuote
#2
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Posted 07 March 2006 - 12:14 AM
As the dark cloaked redguard approached, Rif took note that he bore a likeness more akin to a machine than a human. His goggles sparkled slightly in the dim light, giving him a rather menacing look that, in turn, gave Rif some pause. Still, the redguard’s gait was not a threatening one and upon arrival he introduced himself. The introduction seemed awkward and forced, clearly this was a man unaccustomed to such forward behavior.
Without a word Rif closes the flap of his leather bound tool bag and turns to the figure. Before speaking he looks past his greeter to the man he had been accompanied by. Somehow he seemed oddly familiar, as though they had crossed paths before. Again Rif was given some pause, he would have to be cautious not to reveal too much.
“Very well”, he mutters still not looking the man in the eyes, “I’ll join you, for a chat”. Rif stands from his barstool and gestures to the redguard, called Zow, to lead the way.
Before he could get a response, however, Rif heard a voice demanding Fairgoth’s attention. He turned to see a Khajiit with two Breton’s standing nearby. The voice he heard was not the type that a Khajiit would possess, it seamed to thunder from deep inside in places that a Khajiit could not possibly have. Rif watched as Fairgoth turned and confronted the newcomers with an unspoken challenge.
Mehrunes Dagon? Rif was perplexed. “Who is that”, he wondered, “Isn’t that some daedra?” He had never really cared about the lore of the aedra or daedra, and doing so wouldn’t have brought him any financial gains. Rif’s thoughts were cut short as the three assailants seemed to explode in a mist of gore, splattering all who were too close to avoid the spray. Through the red haze he could see that what was once the Khajiit had become something far more hideous and was now engaged in combat with the fair Wood Elf.
To his dismay, Rif realized he was unable to move. “Oh crap”, he thought as he realized he had now way of getting to cover. He recognized the creatures now standing where the Bretons had been as Atronach’s, though he knew little else about them, and he had no desire to fight them in the open.
Fairgoth and the nightmarish leader vanished leaving Rif with his ablility to move restored. As several others drew their weapons to engage the creatures Rif decided it was better to let the warriors do their work. “I’ll only get in the way”, he told himself, “and besides, I have a feeling that punching those things would only make them mad”.
Without a word Rif closes the flap of his leather bound tool bag and turns to the figure. Before speaking he looks past his greeter to the man he had been accompanied by. Somehow he seemed oddly familiar, as though they had crossed paths before. Again Rif was given some pause, he would have to be cautious not to reveal too much.
“Very well”, he mutters still not looking the man in the eyes, “I’ll join you, for a chat”. Rif stands from his barstool and gestures to the redguard, called Zow, to lead the way.
Before he could get a response, however, Rif heard a voice demanding Fairgoth’s attention. He turned to see a Khajiit with two Breton’s standing nearby. The voice he heard was not the type that a Khajiit would possess, it seamed to thunder from deep inside in places that a Khajiit could not possibly have. Rif watched as Fairgoth turned and confronted the newcomers with an unspoken challenge.
Mehrunes Dagon? Rif was perplexed. “Who is that”, he wondered, “Isn’t that some daedra?” He had never really cared about the lore of the aedra or daedra, and doing so wouldn’t have brought him any financial gains. Rif’s thoughts were cut short as the three assailants seemed to explode in a mist of gore, splattering all who were too close to avoid the spray. Through the red haze he could see that what was once the Khajiit had become something far more hideous and was now engaged in combat with the fair Wood Elf.
To his dismay, Rif realized he was unable to move. “Oh crap”, he thought as he realized he had now way of getting to cover. He recognized the creatures now standing where the Bretons had been as Atronach’s, though he knew little else about them, and he had no desire to fight them in the open.
Fairgoth and the nightmarish leader vanished leaving Rif with his ablility to move restored. As several others drew their weapons to engage the creatures Rif decided it was better to let the warriors do their work. “I’ll only get in the way”, he told himself, “and besides, I have a feeling that punching those things would only make them mad”.
#3
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Posted 07 March 2006 - 12:24 AM
[OOC]Edit from my last post, with a better understanding of how combat is done, sorry for the mixup.[/OOC]
Mehrunes Dagon? Zow thought to himself, perhaps this Mehrunes would be a future foe to fight. He was more fascinated by this person then the disappearance of Fairgoth.
After recovering from the paralyses, Zow reached for his spear, as if on impluse. He went for the the second, non-occupied Atronach. He was low on arrows for his long bow, and this would be a close quaters fight. The Atronach was still at a bit of a distance, so Zow held his spear high, then threw it at the Atronach aiming for its neck.
Mehrunes Dagon? Zow thought to himself, perhaps this Mehrunes would be a future foe to fight. He was more fascinated by this person then the disappearance of Fairgoth.
After recovering from the paralyses, Zow reached for his spear, as if on impluse. He went for the the second, non-occupied Atronach. He was low on arrows for his long bow, and this would be a close quaters fight. The Atronach was still at a bit of a distance, so Zow held his spear high, then threw it at the Atronach aiming for its neck.
#4
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Posted 07 March 2006 - 12:24 AM
[OOC] I'm assuming that we are going to repost our responses to the fourth update since there was a lot of PPing going on, it makes sense to replay that bit.[/OOC]
Erunanion watched through the gore that splattered his face as the creature launched itself at Fairgoth. His hand moved instantly to his side; but it did not. He tried to move again, but found he was completely paralyzed. He watch through a red haze of blood and rage as Fairgoth and the creature fought, and eyed the atronach closest him. He was familair with these creatures, and groaned with frustration that he could do nothing to rid the world of one more of Oblivion's foul spawn.
Suddenly, both the creature and Fairgoth vanished, and his movement returned. Struck dumb that the beautiful Bosmer had disappeared, he remained still for a moment. Recovering swiftly, he drew his sword in an instant and threw himself at the closest atronach, lunging at the creature's broad chest, bellowing his warcry.
Erunanion watched through the gore that splattered his face as the creature launched itself at Fairgoth. His hand moved instantly to his side; but it did not. He tried to move again, but found he was completely paralyzed. He watch through a red haze of blood and rage as Fairgoth and the creature fought, and eyed the atronach closest him. He was familair with these creatures, and groaned with frustration that he could do nothing to rid the world of one more of Oblivion's foul spawn.
Suddenly, both the creature and Fairgoth vanished, and his movement returned. Struck dumb that the beautiful Bosmer had disappeared, he remained still for a moment. Recovering swiftly, he drew his sword in an instant and threw himself at the closest atronach, lunging at the creature's broad chest, bellowing his warcry.
#5
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Posted 07 March 2006 - 12:45 AM
OOC-repost from original thread.
These other people were quick.
The atronarchs were already being assualted by several of the other patrons, but Oroko managed to find an opening and made a quick slash at one of the atronarchs backs with his sword. He darted out of the way of the fight and thought about using some of his shuriken, but with all the other fighters around, and moving so quickly, there was a good chance he would hit one of them and not the atronarch.
Not that Oroko would usually mind (it might actually be good for a few laughs), but he might be working with some of these people soon and it wouldn't be so great for any future relationships if he were to accidentally tag somebody between the shoulders with a throwing star.
So for now Oroko stood back, looking for some kind of solid opening that wouldn't place him directly in the atronarchs path. While he waited, he sized up the two beasts, as well as the many other attacking patrons. There was no shortage of muscle here, nor courage, though there did seem a distinct lack of brains. Most everybody was concerned primarily with the atronarchs, but as Oroko stood back from the battle, he pondered the third creature, the one that had been disguised as a Khajit and attacked the lovely Madame Fairgoth.
That thing that had attacked her, Oroko wasn't familiar with it. He'd seen more than a few Daedra in his life, but that one...he hadn't been able to place it. That worried him. What worried him more was the fact that these creatures were so bold as to attack a heavily crowded tavern full of warriors and thieves in the middle of the Imperial City.
Things were getting pretty serious. But really, that was fine with Oroko.
It usually meant people were willing to pay more.
These other people were quick.
The atronarchs were already being assualted by several of the other patrons, but Oroko managed to find an opening and made a quick slash at one of the atronarchs backs with his sword. He darted out of the way of the fight and thought about using some of his shuriken, but with all the other fighters around, and moving so quickly, there was a good chance he would hit one of them and not the atronarch.
Not that Oroko would usually mind (it might actually be good for a few laughs), but he might be working with some of these people soon and it wouldn't be so great for any future relationships if he were to accidentally tag somebody between the shoulders with a throwing star.
So for now Oroko stood back, looking for some kind of solid opening that wouldn't place him directly in the atronarchs path. While he waited, he sized up the two beasts, as well as the many other attacking patrons. There was no shortage of muscle here, nor courage, though there did seem a distinct lack of brains. Most everybody was concerned primarily with the atronarchs, but as Oroko stood back from the battle, he pondered the third creature, the one that had been disguised as a Khajit and attacked the lovely Madame Fairgoth.
That thing that had attacked her, Oroko wasn't familiar with it. He'd seen more than a few Daedra in his life, but that one...he hadn't been able to place it. That worried him. What worried him more was the fact that these creatures were so bold as to attack a heavily crowded tavern full of warriors and thieves in the middle of the Imperial City.
Things were getting pretty serious. But really, that was fine with Oroko.
It usually meant people were willing to pay more.
#6
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Posted 07 March 2006 - 01:11 AM
OOC- This is a replay of the FIRST part of the previous posts, minus any dead atronachs...
“Gods be smiling on me,” he thought as he listened to the arguing and terse exchanges around him. A slight smile creased his gnarled face as he peered beneath the cowl of the tattered robe into the smoke filled haze of The Drunken Alit. “Elf talk too much. I wish she quiet so I sign up. Not for gold, but gods. She seem nice.”
He finished his mug with a swig and stood. This was his chance: the world would finally see him for who he was. Heroic, kind, intelligent, great… words not usually associated with Orcs. He would make the Masters take notice of him and be proud. They would have to reinstate him.
Sonnaba Beach rolled his broad shoulders to loosen them up and relieve nagging ache of old wounds. Retrieving his worn silver staff from against the wall, he worked his way through the haze to the crowd forming around the Bosmer.
Having been raised from infancy by Dumner had made his childhood both rewarding and harsh. Mu and Da had loved him as their own, but the other Dark Elves never fully trusted him. To make matters worse, every Orc he met seemed stupid, barbaric and cruel.
He finally found a place he felt he belonged when his adoptive parents had been forced to apprentice him to the Imperial Temple as a teenager. Working hard as an assistant to the healers, and then working his way to Shrine Sergeant, he had a family that respected his hard work and loved him as a brother. They had even helped smuggle to Cyrodiil after the incident forced him to flee Morrowind.
He had assumed the name yelled at him by the Dumner in his home village as an act of penance. Alone, he wandered the city trying to live up to teachings of The Temple by helping those less fortunate than himself and trying to do what was right. Taking odd jobs that required either a strong arm or a gentle hand, he had managed to get by without too much trouble. Having sworn off the use of blades since his arrival, the past few years had given him practice enough with his fists and staff. Lately, he actually had a few coins in his pockets from selling his potions and helping those who would rather not be seen going to the more traditional healing establishments.
As Sonnaba approached the crowd, shouting broke out. The pretty Elf cried “Does Mehrunes Dagon believe he can stop us with MINIONS?”
The scent of old blood and bowels was quickly followed by a fount of gore exploding from the Khajiit the Elf was speaking with, as well as two nearby Bretons. Sonnaba tried to raise his staff as he saw two atronachs and foul creature he had never seen emerge from the carnage that was the trio, but found he could not move.
“Paralysis spell!” he though as he cast the counter spell.
“Gods be smiling on me,” he thought as he listened to the arguing and terse exchanges around him. A slight smile creased his gnarled face as he peered beneath the cowl of the tattered robe into the smoke filled haze of The Drunken Alit. “Elf talk too much. I wish she quiet so I sign up. Not for gold, but gods. She seem nice.”
He finished his mug with a swig and stood. This was his chance: the world would finally see him for who he was. Heroic, kind, intelligent, great… words not usually associated with Orcs. He would make the Masters take notice of him and be proud. They would have to reinstate him.
Sonnaba Beach rolled his broad shoulders to loosen them up and relieve nagging ache of old wounds. Retrieving his worn silver staff from against the wall, he worked his way through the haze to the crowd forming around the Bosmer.
Having been raised from infancy by Dumner had made his childhood both rewarding and harsh. Mu and Da had loved him as their own, but the other Dark Elves never fully trusted him. To make matters worse, every Orc he met seemed stupid, barbaric and cruel.
He finally found a place he felt he belonged when his adoptive parents had been forced to apprentice him to the Imperial Temple as a teenager. Working hard as an assistant to the healers, and then working his way to Shrine Sergeant, he had a family that respected his hard work and loved him as a brother. They had even helped smuggle to Cyrodiil after the incident forced him to flee Morrowind.
He had assumed the name yelled at him by the Dumner in his home village as an act of penance. Alone, he wandered the city trying to live up to teachings of The Temple by helping those less fortunate than himself and trying to do what was right. Taking odd jobs that required either a strong arm or a gentle hand, he had managed to get by without too much trouble. Having sworn off the use of blades since his arrival, the past few years had given him practice enough with his fists and staff. Lately, he actually had a few coins in his pockets from selling his potions and helping those who would rather not be seen going to the more traditional healing establishments.
As Sonnaba approached the crowd, shouting broke out. The pretty Elf cried “Does Mehrunes Dagon believe he can stop us with MINIONS?”
The scent of old blood and bowels was quickly followed by a fount of gore exploding from the Khajiit the Elf was speaking with, as well as two nearby Bretons. Sonnaba tried to raise his staff as he saw two atronachs and foul creature he had never seen emerge from the carnage that was the trio, but found he could not move.
“Paralysis spell!” he though as he cast the counter spell.
#8
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Posted 07 March 2006 - 02:36 AM
[ooc]reprint of previous, starting with battle start[/ooc]
As he regained the use of his muscles, Ralaith realized that he did not have time to contemplate the disappearance of Fairgoth; his life was at stake. In a crowded room like this, he would not be able to hide and throw darts, as he preferred, but he still thought he could get off a few. Pulling out the hand-carved, poisoned, sleek ebon darts, Ralaith hurled two of them towards what he considered to be the arm of the farther of the two atronachs, hoping to reduce its range in any way he could, as the thing was bigger than any atronach he had ever seen before.
As his arm retracted from the second throw, Ralaith noticed a Bosmer girl standing nearby, yelling to find out what was going on. She did not seem to be drunk, but neither had she drawn a weapon. He decided that she must be some sort of magicker, hopefully a healer. He shouted at her to get out of harm's way, to hide or run. He could not reach her right then, but he must do what he could to save for, for if she joined his party, she may just do the same for him. Still, for the moment, she was not his greatest concern.
Ralaith saw that others were jumping towards the monstrous atronachs--he would not be able to get off another dart shot. Instead, he leapt backward onto the bar and promptly jumped again, this time upward and forward. As he reached the peak of his arc, Ralaith pulled out his twin longknives that had been stored in his belt and used the pull of gravity to enhance the force of his downward strike aimed at the nearest atronach, the one Erunanion looked to be about to stab. Ralaith could only hope that this atronach's reflexes were as bad as those of the others he had met in his adventures.
As he regained the use of his muscles, Ralaith realized that he did not have time to contemplate the disappearance of Fairgoth; his life was at stake. In a crowded room like this, he would not be able to hide and throw darts, as he preferred, but he still thought he could get off a few. Pulling out the hand-carved, poisoned, sleek ebon darts, Ralaith hurled two of them towards what he considered to be the arm of the farther of the two atronachs, hoping to reduce its range in any way he could, as the thing was bigger than any atronach he had ever seen before.
As his arm retracted from the second throw, Ralaith noticed a Bosmer girl standing nearby, yelling to find out what was going on. She did not seem to be drunk, but neither had she drawn a weapon. He decided that she must be some sort of magicker, hopefully a healer. He shouted at her to get out of harm's way, to hide or run. He could not reach her right then, but he must do what he could to save for, for if she joined his party, she may just do the same for him. Still, for the moment, she was not his greatest concern.
Ralaith saw that others were jumping towards the monstrous atronachs--he would not be able to get off another dart shot. Instead, he leapt backward onto the bar and promptly jumped again, this time upward and forward. As he reached the peak of his arc, Ralaith pulled out his twin longknives that had been stored in his belt and used the pull of gravity to enhance the force of his downward strike aimed at the nearest atronach, the one Erunanion looked to be about to stab. Ralaith could only hope that this atronach's reflexes were as bad as those of the others he had met in his adventures.
#9
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Posted 07 March 2006 - 02:44 AM
NOTE: This is a repost of my message in the other thread, like the others just did.
OOC: Just so you know, English isn't my first language, but I believe I'm fairly proficient with it in order to make myself understood. I also like to make little spelling mistakes, but oh well, I'm human and humans make mistakes sometimes. Blame genetics.
Ander's head lifted up from the wooden table where it had been for quite a while, since last night, when he heard a conmotion in the place "What's going on?" he thought, forcing his mind to fully awaken from its drunken stupor, or what was left of it thanks to the Brandy he had drinked all by himself, as a Bosmer told him a depressing story about his life. But that had been... yesterday's night, Ander calculated quickly, or so he assumed. It didn't matter now, in any case, for there seemed to be trouble. For that matter, Ander had a knack for getting into the ugliest situations in the land, partly because of sheer bad luck, and for his background as hired blade. Hired Battle Mage, actually.
Known by all as Ander, he was well versed in destructive magic and in melee combat at the same time, like any other Battle Mage who was proud of his job. Under his simple indigo robes he wore an iron chestplate, combined with other minor parts of the remaining set, offering relatively good protection. A two-handed mace hung from his back, a clear message to all that he wasn't as flimsy as he appeared to be at first glance. He was an Imperial, but his habit of drinking too much was well-known to his companions and friends, which didn't speak well for his behaviour in general. Ander didn't really care.
Someone was shouting some kind of message, and before he knew it, Ander was sprayed by gore right on his face "Why did I have to glance right now?" he lamented to himself, as he tried to stand up as fast as possible, while one hand went for the mace strapped to his back. Or at least he tried to, for he was held fast in place via some spell he hadn't seen coming.
He surveyed the situation around him: two atronatchs remained, after the others had left. Clueless to what happened in the last two minutes, Ander measured his chances of survival; it seemed like others proficient in combat where there, too, so he hoped that it would be enough.
When the paralysed state went away, the Battle Mage decided to seize his only chance of casting an arcane offense. Channeling forth electrical energies into an outstretched hand facing the Atronachs, he released the arcane bolt upon the two creatures, mindful of the others nearby, so that he didn't hit an ally or innocent by-stander in the process. He charged full speed afterwards, two-handed mace in both hands.
OOC: Just so you know, English isn't my first language, but I believe I'm fairly proficient with it in order to make myself understood. I also like to make little spelling mistakes, but oh well, I'm human and humans make mistakes sometimes. Blame genetics.
Ander's head lifted up from the wooden table where it had been for quite a while, since last night, when he heard a conmotion in the place "What's going on?" he thought, forcing his mind to fully awaken from its drunken stupor, or what was left of it thanks to the Brandy he had drinked all by himself, as a Bosmer told him a depressing story about his life. But that had been... yesterday's night, Ander calculated quickly, or so he assumed. It didn't matter now, in any case, for there seemed to be trouble. For that matter, Ander had a knack for getting into the ugliest situations in the land, partly because of sheer bad luck, and for his background as hired blade. Hired Battle Mage, actually.
Known by all as Ander, he was well versed in destructive magic and in melee combat at the same time, like any other Battle Mage who was proud of his job. Under his simple indigo robes he wore an iron chestplate, combined with other minor parts of the remaining set, offering relatively good protection. A two-handed mace hung from his back, a clear message to all that he wasn't as flimsy as he appeared to be at first glance. He was an Imperial, but his habit of drinking too much was well-known to his companions and friends, which didn't speak well for his behaviour in general. Ander didn't really care.
Someone was shouting some kind of message, and before he knew it, Ander was sprayed by gore right on his face "Why did I have to glance right now?" he lamented to himself, as he tried to stand up as fast as possible, while one hand went for the mace strapped to his back. Or at least he tried to, for he was held fast in place via some spell he hadn't seen coming.
He surveyed the situation around him: two atronatchs remained, after the others had left. Clueless to what happened in the last two minutes, Ander measured his chances of survival; it seemed like others proficient in combat where there, too, so he hoped that it would be enough.
When the paralysed state went away, the Battle Mage decided to seize his only chance of casting an arcane offense. Channeling forth electrical energies into an outstretched hand facing the Atronachs, he released the arcane bolt upon the two creatures, mindful of the others nearby, so that he didn't hit an ally or innocent by-stander in the process. He charged full speed afterwards, two-handed mace in both hands.
#10
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Posted 07 March 2006 - 05:19 AM
(picking up from the last update)
"...might raise..."
No sooner had Antehelios begun trying to charm his way into another free meal and bed when a commotion starts to break out from within the tavern itself. A Khajit and 2 Bretons occupying a table 2 tables from his were causing a ruckus demanding that they see Fairgoth, the beautiful proprietor of the Alit. The next thing he knew Fairgoth appeared shouting expletives against Mehrunes Dagon, and the trio were exploding in a miasma of gore and blood as they revealed themselves to be monsters.
Antehelios was in the middle of kicking up his table to serve as an improvised barricade and grabbing and pulling the Imperial barmaid behind him to take refuge when the aura emanating from the nightmarish leader of the trio had paralyzed all onlookers. It was as if time had stopped for all except the attackers and the attacked, Fairgoth. As Antehelios pondered what was going to happen next he surveyed the othe players in the unfolding drama. Some of the other patrons were already in mid leap for an attack. The 3 dunmer he had observed earlier were now stuck charging the Atronachs who were Bretons before. The Breton mage was in the midst of unleasing fire from her fingertips as her Redguard companion drew his axe when they were immobilized.
"This just keeps getting better and better," Antehelios thought to himself as the paralysis suddenly wore off and everyone else began moving normally again. He had kicked up his impromptu barrier and had pulled the barmaid behind him and the upturned table. He motioned for her to hide while he grabbed his warbow and quiver full of arrows and peaked over the table. The nightmarish leader and fairgoth were nowhere to be found, while the lumbering Atronachs were already busy handling the other patrons in the bar. One of the dunmer were busy hacking away at the Atronach that was to Antehelios' right while his other companion tended to their fellow dunmer who had been knocked back by the flaming monstrosity. The Breton witch was peppering the other Atronach with spells as her Redguard bodyguard shielded her from the monster's attacks. Bothe monsters had their backs turned towards Antehelios and both had yet to notice him behind his table.
"Perfect," Antehelios muttered to himself as he notched an arrow and took aim at the back ofAtronach harassing the dunmer. Whenever possible, Antehelios favored attacks of opportunity, as it allowed him to be quick about his grim business and come out relatively unscathed. But this time, he was up against Atronachs, and these otherworlders, these monsters, would hardly be felled by a single arrow, and would be a challenge indeed. He lets the arrow fly to find its mark, and the Atronach winces a bit in pain, but hardly enough to stop moving. Antehelios notches another arrow and then another one and another one and lets them fly one after another to slow down the lumbering brute. One grazes the monster while the rest find their mark, and the Atronach seems to have been wounded enough to turn to his direction and notice his 4th assailant. As the first Atronach charged, Antehelios turned his attention to the other one in battle against the mage and warrior. As before, Antehelios notched arrow after arrow and let them fly towards the creature's back, slowly making the monster resemble a pincushion.
With the combined efforts of magic, axe arm, and concealed sniper the Atronachs were wounded then vanished. With the melee ended the patrons could attend to the needs of their wounded comrades, while Antehelios pondered the whereabouts of the beautiful Fairgoth, and his interrupted meal...
[edited since the Atronachs live or die depending on the DM's choice. My bad....]
"...might raise..."
No sooner had Antehelios begun trying to charm his way into another free meal and bed when a commotion starts to break out from within the tavern itself. A Khajit and 2 Bretons occupying a table 2 tables from his were causing a ruckus demanding that they see Fairgoth, the beautiful proprietor of the Alit. The next thing he knew Fairgoth appeared shouting expletives against Mehrunes Dagon, and the trio were exploding in a miasma of gore and blood as they revealed themselves to be monsters.
Antehelios was in the middle of kicking up his table to serve as an improvised barricade and grabbing and pulling the Imperial barmaid behind him to take refuge when the aura emanating from the nightmarish leader of the trio had paralyzed all onlookers. It was as if time had stopped for all except the attackers and the attacked, Fairgoth. As Antehelios pondered what was going to happen next he surveyed the othe players in the unfolding drama. Some of the other patrons were already in mid leap for an attack. The 3 dunmer he had observed earlier were now stuck charging the Atronachs who were Bretons before. The Breton mage was in the midst of unleasing fire from her fingertips as her Redguard companion drew his axe when they were immobilized.
"This just keeps getting better and better," Antehelios thought to himself as the paralysis suddenly wore off and everyone else began moving normally again. He had kicked up his impromptu barrier and had pulled the barmaid behind him and the upturned table. He motioned for her to hide while he grabbed his warbow and quiver full of arrows and peaked over the table. The nightmarish leader and fairgoth were nowhere to be found, while the lumbering Atronachs were already busy handling the other patrons in the bar. One of the dunmer were busy hacking away at the Atronach that was to Antehelios' right while his other companion tended to their fellow dunmer who had been knocked back by the flaming monstrosity. The Breton witch was peppering the other Atronach with spells as her Redguard bodyguard shielded her from the monster's attacks. Bothe monsters had their backs turned towards Antehelios and both had yet to notice him behind his table.
"Perfect," Antehelios muttered to himself as he notched an arrow and took aim at the back ofAtronach harassing the dunmer. Whenever possible, Antehelios favored attacks of opportunity, as it allowed him to be quick about his grim business and come out relatively unscathed. But this time, he was up against Atronachs, and these otherworlders, these monsters, would hardly be felled by a single arrow, and would be a challenge indeed. He lets the arrow fly to find its mark, and the Atronach winces a bit in pain, but hardly enough to stop moving. Antehelios notches another arrow and then another one and another one and lets them fly one after another to slow down the lumbering brute. One grazes the monster while the rest find their mark, and the Atronach seems to have been wounded enough to turn to his direction and notice his 4th assailant. As the first Atronach charged, Antehelios turned his attention to the other one in battle against the mage and warrior. As before, Antehelios notched arrow after arrow and let them fly towards the creature's back, slowly making the monster resemble a pincushion.
With the combined efforts of magic, axe arm, and concealed sniper the Atronachs were wounded then vanished. With the melee ended the patrons could attend to the needs of their wounded comrades, while Antehelios pondered the whereabouts of the beautiful Fairgoth, and his interrupted meal...
[edited since the Atronachs live or die depending on the DM's choice. My bad....]
