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"Gads! It seems every time I come out to the common room theres a death. Or lots of deaths." Naull says half-soberly, as he came groggily down the stairs.

 

"ummnuhmm... shein. fast." he tells the bartender.

 

"He picks up his bottle of shien and looks around with a look of detestable understanding, then heads back up the stairs.

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Loq-Gar stares at Margoth, with and insaciable hunger in his eyes, "I thought you would be a more challengeing prey than your kin, Loq-Gar is insulted by this, you dont put up much more fight than his corpse, STUPID MANLING!! SUFFER!!!", Loq-Gar screams in Margoth's face, strings of viscus saliva flying about with every word spoken in his rage, Loq-Gar then picks up Margoth with one hand neerly able to encompass his arms and torso, "you know paind now...", Loq-Gar then stands up to his ful height, which seems to be around 9 and a half to a full 10 feet, he rasises his arm with Margoth in it high above his head, and hurls him at the ground. Margoth collides with the hard cobble stone road way with a very satifying crack of bone, and the sound of his steel armor colapseing in around him, "these manlings never learn", growles Loq-Gar as he plants his foot on the cripled body of Margoth, and ever so slowly continues to exhert more and more presseure on the foolish imperial's broken body.
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Armiena sighs at the sight of this slaughter.

Fools. All Men seem to do is fight amongst themselves....

 

"I need a stiff drink."

She orders a pint of potent sujamma. Within minutes, she is drunk, muttering nonsense to anyone who is unfortunate to be next to her.

 

A barfly tries to leave her depressing company.

 

"HEY!! zdon't 'eave whils ah'm talkin tuh ya." She attempts to draw her sword, but knocks over her mug. She staggers on the counter for a second, and punches the poor man in the face. He goes down onto a table, scattering drink everywhere.

 

"SHBAR FIGHT!!! WHO'SH NEXD!"

The bouncer grabs her and hauls her up bodily to her room, ignoring Armiena's wild beating on his arms.

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OOC:Never mind!!!!

I am not playing anymore :angry: :angry:

Because of god-moding :angry: <_<

<ooc: let me explain this in simple terms:

me: wounded your character, killed npcs that shouldn't have been there anyway

 

you: infinite supply of Imperial soldiers, 1 post kills, ignoring other posts, taking in-character actions personally, constantly whining about "god-moding" while doing the exact same thing

 

Now who's the one playing god?>

 

 

The Habassan archers fire a third time, and again the deadly rain opens large holes in the Imperial formation. And with their leader apparently dead, their morale fails and they begin a chaotic retreat. But just to be sure, the Habassans put 800 more arrows into their backs. Barely a third of the Imperials survive long enough to run.

 

Margoth, trapped under Loq-Gar's foot, barely notices his army's defeat. But the voice returns to his mind one final time. "Your Empire is not wanted here. Run like the coward you are, back to your Emperor. Tell him about the "battle" today. Tell him there will only be death if your Empire insists on holding on to power."

 

The force on his neck is suddenly gone, and an invisible hand shoves him away and into clear space.

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Loq-Gar, senseing such civilizeation is not his place takes this opportunity to make his way back home to Blackmarsh, swifly he makes for a thick forest to the south west, and then on his way. Fode also has grown tired of life in the more urban places of Tamriel, and casualy walks out of town, seeking adventure, and riches. Finaly during the din of battle, and amongst the screams of dieing imperials, a young, male half elf bard makes his way around the battle trying his best to avoid falling arrows, as well as falling imperials on his way to the bar. After an ordeal with a templar knight thinking he was enemy assasin, and nearly loseing his lute he finaly makes it to the tavern, out of breath and shaken from the intense carnage so close to such a comfortable tavern. The young half elf finaly reaches the bar, and orders his drink,"Ello there bar-keep, how dose the day greet you?, well Ill have your finest brandy, oh and before I forget my names Melekar", he than takes his brandy and takes a seat at a table near the fire place, and begins to tune his lute.
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Melekar places his lute on the table after his maticulous tuneing. He then picks up his brandy and shifts in to a more comfortable position in his chair, and just stares in to the fire, muttering to himself in between sips of his brandy. After a good ten minutes of stareing in to the fire and savoring his brandy, Melekar pulls a dagger from a sheath at his chest and begins to polish its tarnished silver surface, whilst humming in a sorrowful tone.
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Melekar looks at his reflection in the now gleaming surface of his sliver dagger, satisfied, he sheaths the blade, and turns to gaze out at the setting sun and corpses of imperial soldiers strewn about from the reacent battle. Melekar just shakes his head and walks over to the bar, and gets a room, proceeds upstairs and dozes off.
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