|
FreudianSlippers posted:What is actually the difference between Colovian Imperials and Nibenese Imperials? Colovians rain from the sky way more often
|
#
?
Feb 28, 2014 21:29
|
|
|
|
| # ? Jun 3, 2024 10:48 |
|
|
Hog Butcher posted:Colovians rain from the sky way more often Tarhiel was a bosmer 
|
|
#
?
Feb 28, 2014 21:51
|
|
|
He was wearing Colovian gear so I guess I racially profiled him based on his outfit
|
|
#
?
Feb 28, 2014 22:03
|
|
|
Hog Butcher posted:He was wearing Colovian gear so I guess I racially profiled him based on his outfit serves him right for being a culture appropriating son of a bitch
|
|
#
?
Feb 28, 2014 22:19
|
|
|
 one day bethesda's going to make a non-hosed game and it will be unplayable
|
|
#
?
Feb 28, 2014 22:51
|
|
|
Hog Butcher posted:
These would go well with the Elven Gauntlets of Major Welding, which adds 2500 to your Smithing skill.
|
|
#
?
Feb 28, 2014 23:17
|
|
|
Bethesda doesn't really make games. They produce a Creation Kit and fixing their "game" is the game.
|
|
#
?
Feb 28, 2014 23:23
|
|
|
I found this book in Morrowind just now and it's one of my favorite one-off stories:quote:Breathing Water
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 01:53
|
|
|
What's even better about that book is that in game there is a sunken ship (I think near Vivec) that has a skeleton holding 2 potions of water breathing.
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 02:02
|
|
|
Is it post your favorite one-off story time?The Importance of Where posted:The chieftain of Othrobar gathered his wise men together and said, “Every morning a tenfold of my flock are found butchered. What is the cause?”
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 02:25
|
|
|
Mortimer posted:Is it post your favorite one-off story time? Here's my favorite 'person uses magic, magic ruins their poo poo' story. Palla vol.1&2 Volume 1 Palla. Pal La. I remember when I first heard that name, not long ago at all. It was at a Tales and Tallows ball at a very fine estate west of Mir Corrup, to which I and my fellow Mages Guild initiates had found ourselves unexpectedly invited. Truth be told, we needn't have been too surprised. There were very few other noble families in Mir Corrup -- the region had its halcyon days as a resort for the wealthy far back in the 2nd era -- and on reflection, it was only appropriate to have sorcerers and wizards present at a supernatural holiday. Not that we were anything more exotic than students at a small, nonexclusive charterhouse of the Guild, but like I said, there was a paucity of other choices available. For close to a year, the only home I had known was the rather ramshackle if sprawling grounds of the Mir Corrup Mages Guild. My only companions were my fellow initiates, most of which only tolerated me, and the masters, whose bitterness at being at a backwater Guild prompted never-ending abuse. Immediately the School of Illusion had attracted me. The Magister who taught us recognized me as an apt pupil who loved not only the spells of the science but their philosophical underpinnings. There was something about the idea of warping the imperceptible energies of light, sound, and mind that appealed to my nature. Not for me the flashy schools of destruction and alteration, the holy schools of restoration and conjuration, the practical schools of alchemy and enchantment, or the chaotic school of mysticism. No, I was never so pleased as to take an ordinary object and by a little magic make it seem something other than what it was. It would have taken more imagination than I had to apply that philosophy to my monotonous life. After the morning's lessons, we were assigned tasks before our evening classes. Mine had been to clean out the study of a recently deceased resident of the Guild, and categorize his clutter of spellbooks, charms, and incunabula. It was a lonely and tedious appointment. Magister Tendixus was an inveterate collector of worthless junk, but I was reprimanded any time I threw something away of the least possible value. Gradually I learned enough to deliver each of his belongings to the appropriate department: potions of healing to the Magisters of Restoration, books on physical phenomena to the Magisters of Alteration, herbs and minerals to the Alchemists, and soulgems and bound items to the Enchanters. After one delivery to the Enchanters, I was leaving with my customary lack of appreciation, when Magister Ilther called me back. "Boy," said the portly old man, handing me back one item. "Destroy this." It was a small black disc covered with runes with a ring of red-orange gems like bones circling its periphery. "I'm sorry, Magister," I stammered. "I thought it was something you'd be interested in." "Take it to the great flame and destroy it," he barked, turning his back on me. "You never brought it here." My interest was piqued, because I knew the only thing that would make him react in such a way. Necromancy. I went back to Magister Tendixus's chamber and poured through his notes, looking for any reference to the disc. Unfortunately, most of the notes had been written in a strange code that I was powerless to decipher. I was so fascinated by the mystery that I nearly arrived late for my evening class in Enchantment, taught by Magister Ilther himself. For the next several weeks, I divided my time categorizing the general debris and making my deliveries, and researching the disc. I came to understand that my instinct was correct: the disc was a genuine necromantic artifact. Though I couldn't understand most of the Magister's notes, I determined that he thought it to be a means of resurrecting a loved one from the grave. Sadly, the time came when the chamber had been categorized and cleared, and I was given another assignment, assisting in the stables of the Guild's menagerie. At least finally I was working with some of my fellow initiates and had the opportunity of meeting the common folk and nobles who came to the Guild on various errands. Thus was I employed when we were all invited to the Tales and Tallows ball. If the expected glamour of the evening were not enough, our hostess was reputed to be young, rich, unmarried orphan from Hammerfell. Only a month or two before had she moved to our desolate, wooded corner of the Imperial Province to reclaim an old family manorhouse and grounds. The initiates at the Guild gossiped like old women about the mysterious young lady's past, what had happened to her parents, why she had left or been driven from her homeland. Her name was Betaniqi, and that was all we knew. We wore our robes of initiation with pride as we arrived for the ball. At the enormous marble foyer, a servant announced each of our names as if we were royalty, and we strutted into the midst of the revelers with great puffery. Of course, we were then promptly ignored by one and all. In essence, we were unimportant figures to lend some thickness to the ball. Background characters. The important people pushed through us with perfect politeness. There was old Lady Schaudirra discussing diplomatic appointments to Balmora with the Duke of Rimfarlin. An orc warlord entertained a giggling princess with tales of rape and pillage. Three of the Guild Magisters worried with three painfully thin noble spinsters about the haunting of Daggerfall. Intrigues at the Imperial and various royal courts were analyzed, gently mocked, fretted over, toasted, dismissed, evaluated, mitigated, admonished, subverted. No one looked our way even when we were right next to them. It was as if my skill at illusion had somehow rendered us all invisible. I took my flagon out to the terrace. The moons were doubled, equally luminous in the sky and in the enormous reflecting pool that stretched out into the garden. The white marble statuary lining the sides of the pool caught the fiery glow and seemed to burn like torches in the night. The sight was so otherworldly that I was mesmerized by it, and the strange Redguard figures immortalized in stone. Our hostess had made her home there so recently that some of the sculptures were still wrapped in sheets that billowed and swayed in the gentle breeze. I don't know how long I stared before I realized I wasn't alone. She was so small and so dark, not only in her skin but in her clothing, that I nearly took her for a shadow. When she turned to me, I saw that she was very beautiful and young, not more than seventeen. "Are you our hostess?" I finally asked. "Yes," she smiled, blushing. "But I'm ashamed to admit that I'm very bad at it. I should be inside with my new neighbors, but I think we have very little in common." "It's been made abundantly clear that they hope I have nothing in common with them either," I laughed. "When I'm a little higher than an initiate in the Mages Guild, they might see me as more of an equal." "I don't understand the concept of equality in Cyrodiil yet," she frowned. "In my culture, you proved your worth, not just expected it. My parents both were great warriors, as I hope to be." Her eyes went out to the lawn, to the statues. "Do the sculptures represent your parents?" "That's my father Pariom there," she said gesturing to a life-sized representation of a massively built man, unashamedly naked, gripping another warrior by the throat and preparing to decapitate him with an outstretched blade. It was clearly a realistic depiction. Pariom's face was plain, even slightly ugly with a low forehead, a mass of tangled hair, stubble on his cheeks. Even a slight gap in his teeth, which no sculptor would surely have invented except to do justice to his model's true idiosyncrasies. "And your mother?" I asked, pointing to a nearby statue of a proud, rather squat warrior woman in a mantilla and scarf, holding a child. "Oh no," she laughed. "That was my uncle's old nurse. Mother's statue still has a sheet over it." I don't know what prompted me to insist that we unveil the statue that she pointed to. In all likelihood, it was nothing but fate, and a selfish desire to continue the conversation. I was afraid that if I did not give her a project, she would feel the need to return to the party, and I would be alone again. At first she was reluctant. She had not yet made up her mind whether the statues would suffer in the wet, sometimes cold Cyrodilic climate. Perhaps all should be covered, she reasoned. It may be that she was merely making conversation, and was reluctant as I was to end the stand-off and be that much closer to having to return to the party. In a few minutes time, we tore the tarp from the statue of Betaniqi's mother. That is when my life changed forevermore. She was an untamed spirit of nature, screaming in a struggle with a misshapen monstrous figure in black marble. Her gorgeous, long fingers were raking across the creature's face. The monster's talons gripped her right breast in a sort of caress that prefaces a mortal wound. Its legs and hers wound around one another in a battle that was a dance. I felt annihilated. This lithe but formidable woman was beautiful beyond all superficial standards. Whoever had sculpted it had somehow captured not only a face and figure of a goddess, but her power and will. She was both tragic and triumphant. I fell instantly and fatally in love with her. I had not even noticed when Gelyn, one of my fellow initiates who was leaving the party, came up behind us. Apparently I had whispered the word "magnificent," because I heard Betaniqi reply as if miles away, "Yes, it is magnificent. That's why I was afraid of exposing it to the elements." Then I heard, clearly, like a stone breaking water, Gelyn: "Mara preserve me. That must be Palla." "Then you heard of my mother?" asked Betaniqi, turning his way. "I hail from Wayrest, practically on the border to Hammerfell. I don't think there's anyone who hasn't heard of your mother and her great heroism, ridding the land of that abominable beast. She died in that struggle, didn't she?" "Yes," said the girl sadly. "But so too did the creature." For a moment, we were all silent. I don't remember anything more of that night. Somehow I knew I was invited to dine the next evening, but my mind and heart had been entirely and forever more arrested by the statue. I returned back to the Guild, but my dreams were fevered and brought me no rest. Everything seemed diffused by white light, except for one beautiful, fearsome woman. Palla. Volume 2 Palla. Pal La. The name burned in my heart. I found myself whispering it in my studies even when I tried to concentrate on something the Magister was saying. My lips would silently purse to voice the "Pal," and tongue lightly flick to form the "La" as if I were kissing her spirit before me. It was madness in every way except that I knew that it was madness. I knew I was in love. I knew she was a noble Redguard woman, a fierce warrior more beautiful than the stars. I knew her young daughter Betaniqi had taken possession of a manorhouse near the Guild, and that she liked me, perhaps was even infatuated. I knew Palla had fought a terrible beast and killed it. I knew Palla was dead. As I say, I knew it was madness, and by that, I knew I could not be mad. But I also knew that I must return to Betaniqi's palace to see her statue of my beloved Palla engaged in that final, horrible, fatal battle with the monster. Return I did, over and over again. Had Betaniqi been a different sort of noblewoman, more comfortable with her peers, I would not have had so many opportunities. In her innocence, unaware of my sick obsession, she welcomed my company. We would talk for hours, laughing, and every time we would take a walk to the reflecting pond where I would always stop breathless before the sculpture of her mother. "It's a marvelous tradition you have, preserving these figures of your ancestors at their finest moments," I said, feeling her curious eyes on me. "And the craftsmanship is without parallel." "You wouldn't believe me," laughed the girl. "But it was a bit of scandal when my great grandfather began the custom. We Redguards hold a great reverence for our families, but we are warriors, not artists. He hired an traveling artist to create the first statues, and everyone admired them until it was revealed that the artist was an elf. An Altmer from the Summerset Isle." "Scandal!" "It was, absolutely," Betaniqi nodded seriously. "The idea that a pompous, wicked elf's hands had formed these figures of noble Redguard warriors was unthinkable, profane, irreverent, everything bad you can imagine. But my great grandfather's heart was in the beauty of it, and his philosophy of using the best to honor the best passed down to us all. I would not have even considered having a lesser artist create the statues of my parents, even if it would have been more allegiant to my culture." "They're all exquisite," I said. "But you like the one of my mother most of all," she smiled. "I see you look at it even when you seem to be looking at the others. It's my favorite also." "Would you tell me more about her?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light and conversational. "Oh, she would have said she was nothing extraordinary, but she was," the girl said, picking a flower from the garden. "My father died when I was quite young, and she had so many roles to fill, but she did them all effortlessly. We have a great many business interests and she was brilliant at managing everything. Certainly better than I am now. All it took was her smile and everyone obeyed, and those that didn't paid dearly. She was very witty and charming, but a formidable force when the need arose for her to fight. Hundreds of battles, but I can never remember a moment of feeling neglected or unloved. I literally thought she was too strong for death. Stupid, I know, but when she went to battle that -- that horrible creature, that freak from a mad wizard's laboratory, I never even thought she would not return. She was kind to her friends and ruthless to her enemies. What more can one say about a woman than that?" Poor Betaniqi's eyes teared up with remembrance. What sort of villain was I to goad her so, in order to satisfy my perverted longings? Sheogorath could never have conflicted a mortal man more than me. I found myself both weeping and filled with desire. Palla not only looked like a goddess, but from her daughter's story, she was one. That night while undressing for bed, I rediscovered the black disc I had stolen from Magister Tendixus's office weeks before. I had half-forgotten about its existence, that mysterious necromantic artifact which the mage believed could resurrect a dead love. Almost by pure instinct, I found myself placing the disc on my heart and whispering, "Palla." A momentary chill filled my chamber. My breath hung in the air in a mist before dissipating. Frightened I dropped the disc. It took a moment before my reason returned, and with it the inescapable conclusion: the artifact could fulfill my desire. Until the early morning hours, I tried to raise my mistress from the chains of Oblivion, but it was no use. I was no necromancer. I entertained thoughts of how to ask one of the Magisters to help me, but I remembered how Magister Ilther had bid me to destroy it. They would expel me from the Guild if I went to them and destroy the disc themselves. And with it, my only key to bringing my love to me. I was in my usual semi-torpid condition the next day in classes. Magister Ilther himself was lecturing on his specialty, the School of Enchantment. He was a dull speaker with a monotone voice, but suddenly I felt as if every shadow had left the room and I was in a palace of light. "When most persons think of my particular science, they think of the process of invention. The infusing of charms and spells into objects. The creation of a magickal blade, perhaps, or a ring. But the skilled enchanter is also a catalyst. The same mind that can create something new can also provoke greater power from something old. A ring that can generate warmth for a novice, on the hand of such a talent can bake a forest black." The fat man chuckled: "Not that I'm advocating that. Leave that for the School of Destruction." That week all the initiates were asked to choose a field of specialization. All were surprised when I turned my back on my old darling, the School of Illusion. It seemed ridiculous to me that I had ever entertained an affection for such superficial charms. All my intellect was now focused on the School of Enchantment, the means by which I could free the power of the disc. For months thereafter, I barely slept. A few hours a week, I'd spend with Betaniqi and my statue to give myself strength and inspiration. All the rest of my time was spent with Magister Ilther or his assistants, learning everything I could about enchantment. They taught me how to taste the deepest levels of magicka within a stored object. "A simple spell cast once, no matter how skillfully and no matter how spectacularly, is ephemeral, of the present, what it is and no more," sighed Magister Ilther. "But placed in a home, it develops into an almost living energy, maturing and ripening so only its surface is touched when an unskilled hand wields it. You must consider yourself a miner, digging deeper to pull forth the very heart of gold." Every night when the laboratory closed, I practiced what I had learned. I could feel my power grow and with it, the power of the disc. Whispering "Palla," I delved into the artifact, feeling every slight nick that marked the runes and every facet of the gemstones. At times I was so close to her, I felt hands touching mine. But something dark and bestial, the reality of death I suppose, would always break across the dawning of my dream. With it came an overwhelming rotting odor, which the initiates in the chambers next to mine began to complain about. "Something must have crawled into the floorboards and died," I offered lamely. Magister Ilther praised my scholarship, and allowed me the use of his laboratory after hours to further my studies. Yet no matter what I learned, Palla seemed scarcely closer. One night, it all ended. I was swaying in a deep ecstasy, moaning her name, the disc bruising my chest, when a sudden lightning flash through the window broke my concentration. A tempest of furious rain roared over Mir Corrup. I went to close the shutters, and when I returned to my table, I found that the disc had shattered. I broke into hysterical sobs and then laughter. It was too much for my fragile mind to bear such a loss after so much time and study. The next day and the day after, I spent in my bed, burning with a fever. Had I not been a [sic] Mages Guild with so many healers, I likely would have died. As it was, I provided an excellent study for the budding young scholars. When at last I was well enough to walk, I went to visit Betaniqi. She was charming as always, never once commenting on my appearance, which must have been ghastly. Finally I gave her reason to worry when I politely but firmly declined to walk with her along the reflecting pool. "But you love looking at the statuary," she exclaimed. I felt that I owed her the truth and much more. "Dear lady, I love more than the statuary. I love your mother. She is all I've been able to think about for months now, ever since you and I first removed the tarp from that blessed sculpture. I don't know what you think of me now, but I have been obsessed with learning how to bring her back from the dead." Betaniqi stared at me, eyes wide. Finally she spoke: "I think you need to leave now. I don't know if this is a terrible jest --" "Believe me, I wish it were. You see, I failed. I don't know why. It could not have been that my love wasn't strong enough, because no man had a stronger love. Perhaps my skills as an enchanter are not masterful, but it wasn't from lack of study!" I could feel my voice rise and knew I was beginning to rant, but I could not hold back. "Perhaps the fault lay in that your mother never met me, but I think that only the caster's love is taken into account in the necromantic spell. I don't know what it was! Maybe that horrible creature, the monster that killed her, cast some sort of curse on her with its dying breath! I failed! And I don't know why!" With a surprising burst of speed and strength for so small a lady, Betaniqi shoved herself against me. She screamed, “Get out!” and I fled out the door. Before she slammed the door shut, I offered my pathetic apologies: "I'm so sorry, Betaniqi, but consider that I wanted to bring your mother back to you. It's madness, I know, but there is only one thing that's certain in my life and that's that I love Palla." The door was nearly shut, but the girl opened it crack to ask tremulously: "You love whom?" "Palla!" I cried to the Gods. "My mother," she whispered angrily. "Was named Xarlys. Palla was the monster." I stared at the closed door for Mara knows how much time, and then began the long walk back to the Mages Guild. My memory searched through the minutiae to the Tales and Tallows night so long ago when I first beheld the statue, and first heard the name of my love. That Breton initiate, Gelyn had spoken. He was behind me. Was he recognizing the beast and not the lady? I turned the lonely bend that intersected with the outskirts of Mir Corrup, and a large shadow rose from the ground where it had been sitting, waiting for me. "Palla," I groaned. "Pal La." "Kiss me," it howled. And that brings my story up to the present moment. Love is red, like blood.
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 03:12
|
|
|
Zero Star posted:*creates spell that opens every lock within a 50ft radius* You can improve on this spell by having it turn you invisible at the point of casting. No more fines needed.
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 03:50
|
|
|
favourite thing about morrowind no. 185: the fact that the telvanni force the tribunal temple to live underground
Whorelord fucked around with this message at 05:24 on Mar 1, 2014 |
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 04:40
|
|
|
Minarchist posted:I found this book in Morrowind just now and it's one of my favorite one-off stories: That one's pretty much my favorite but the one about a Dwemer golem that's actually just a dude in a suit of armor and the guy who wins a duel by holding it in a swamp where the other guy's fire sword makes so much steam that he can't see are pretty great as well.
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 05:36
|
|
|
I'm going to just say it: Morrowind is played better as Morroblvion than regular or MGO. Also, I liked that Red Eagle book in Skyrim that had the dude running at his enemies naked in the frozen north with just his fiery sword or whatever.
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 05:41
|
|
|
omg chael crash posted:I'm going to just say it: I'm a loving retard.
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 05:48
|
|
|
...of SCIENCE! posted:the guy who wins a duel by holding it in a swamp where the other guy's fire sword makes so much steam that he can't see are pretty great as well. Was that the one where there was a commission to equip an army, and the native armor won out over the ebony-mailed knight? http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Morrowind:The_Armorer%27s_Challenge omg chael crash posted:I'm going to just say it: *heinous blasphemies*  Red Eagle was a pretty cool story though.
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 05:51
|
|
|
I will take this as implying I should post more. Chapter 3, which is relevant because Pankratosword. RAVAGE OF DAGOHT UR posted:Chapter 3: CHAPTER 3: THE JWELS ASSMEMBLED PS Palla is my favourite too
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 05:52
|
|
|
I'm pretty dumb *sword miss noise* *sword miss noise* *sword miss noise* *sword miss noise*
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 05:53
|
|
|
omg chael crash posted:I'm pretty dumb This is the great blight of not always winning automatically because you're the player, and having to manage your fatigue in combat. *Auto scales every single encounter so it's always just barely going to go to the player, who never misses*
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 06:00
|
|
|
quote:he was sad because the redgards are so much cooler than betons ever were. True 
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 06:01
|
|
|
Cantorsdust posted:True gently caress you Bretons 4 lyfe
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 06:04
|
|
|
omg chael crash posted:I'm going to just say it: Morrowind is played better as Morroblvion than regular or MGO. poor troll post, 2/5 on bookchat, I think my favorite is the Hope of the Redoran. a pair of redoran nobles were to have a duel and one of them had an omen that said that he would never bleed so the other guy was freaking out. the other guy's mentor said "goddam son don't you know any weapons that dont draw blood."  so on the day of the duel, the dude got a club instead of a sword and bashed the fuckers head in.  http://www.imperial-library.info/content/hope-redoran
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 06:04
|
|
|
I got bored and CHIMed my Telvanni Stronghold (had to gently caress with the light levels in PS, for some reason screenshots are super dark). Lower Level,   Upper Level, 
Fake James fucked around with this message at 06:07 on Mar 1, 2014 |
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 06:04
|
|
|
omg chael crash posted:I'm pretty dumb if you actually prefer oblivion's horrible hp sponge bullshit combat there is something clinically wrong with your brain
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 06:07
|
|
|
Cannot Find Server posted:if you actually prefer oblivion's horrible hp sponge bullshit combat there is something clinically wrong with your brain *Drops armor 1-2 points better than your current armor, forever*
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 06:14
|
|
|
Minarchist posted:Was that the one where there was a commission to equip an army, and the native armor won out over the ebony-mailed knight? That's it! I loved how they managed to make the non-combat skills sound badass in their respective stories, like the guy who was so good at heavy armor that he could silently walk on his hands, kill his wife's lover, and then gently caress her brains out all in heavy armor  It is kind of hilarious that they went to the trouble to write these cool stories about the game's master trainers but in the actual game one of them just plain doesn't work and another is hostile and will attack you on sight.
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 06:18
|
|
|
I'm sorry we don't all like the same things.
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 06:19
|
|
|
...of SCIENCE! posted:That's it! I loved how they managed to make the non-combat skills sound badass in their respective stories, like the guy who was so good at heavy armor that he could silently walk on his hands, kill his wife's lover, and then gently caress her brains out all in heavy armor Sirollus Saccus would be ancient by now if he was alive during Katariah's reign...300 years ago  As for the Enchant master, you can use spells or bribes/speechcraft to get his disposition up so that he calms down and stops trying to fry your rear end with spells. So you aren't totally hosed if you want to max out your enchant skill, you just have to not be a dumbass and assume since he's hostile you have to kill him. Of course there isn't a whole lot that tells you he's the Enchant master so... 
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 06:35
|
|
|
http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Morrowind:The_Hope_of_the_Redoran Gotta love this one. It tells you how prophecy works in the series, as well as how to kill a guy who cannot be cut, poisoned, or bewitched.
|
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 06:45
|
|
|
Gobblecoque posted:on bookchat, I think my favorite is the Hope of the Redoran. a pair of redoran nobles were to have a duel and one of them had an omen that said that he would never bleed so the other guy was freaking out. the other guy's mentor said "goddam son don't you know any weapons that dont draw blood." Did you know? The hero (well, the winner) of that story lives in Ald'ruhn and wrote the Redoran manual of honor. Also he's constantly fending off assassination attempts for some reason. Gee, how strange.
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 06:45
|
|
|
Hog Butcher posted:
How did you do this? Enchant gear with fortify enchant, equip it, enchant better fortify enchant gear, and so on?
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 06:50
|
|
Doc Hawkins posted:Did you know? The hero (well, the winner) of that story lives in Ald'ruhn and wrote the Redoran manual of honor. He's also the only guy to support your bid for Redoran Hortator. Also, his mentor lives in Buckmoth Legion Fort right outside of Ald-Ruhn and is the master trainer for Block.
|
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 06:53
|
|
|
LeftistMuslimObama posted:How did you do this? Enchant gear with fortify enchant, equip it, enchant better fortify enchant gear, and so on? I think that doesn't exist. What I remember hearing(and theorizing for myself) was: 10 enchant +alchemy 20 brew +enchant 30 Goto 10
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 07:12
|
|
|
Light Armor, best skill, best skill book http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Morrowind:The_Rear_Guard The castle would hold. No matter the forces, the walls of Cascabel Hall would never fail, but that was small consolation for Menegur. He was hungry. In fact, he had never been so hungry. The well in the atrium of the fortress supplied him with enough water to hold there until the Fourth Era, but his stomach reminded Menegur minute to minute that he needed food. The wagonload of supplies mocked him. When his army, the forces of the King of Solitude, had left Cascabel Hall, and he had manned the battlements as the rear-guard to protect their retreat, they had left a wagon behind to supply him with enough food for months. It was not until the night after they left that he inspected the larder and found that nothing edible was in the wagon. Trunk after trunk was filled with netch armor from the army's incursion into Morrowind. Apparently his Nord confederates had assumed that the lightly opaque material was hard tack in aspic. If the Dunmer whose caravan had been raided knew about this, they would never be able to stop laughing. Menegur thought that his fellow mercenary and kinswoman Aerin would have found this amusing as well. She had spoken with great authority about netch leather, being an expert of sorts on light armor, but she had made a point to mention that it could not be eaten like other leather in occasions of hardship. It was a pity she couldn't be there to enjoy the irony, Menegur thought savagely. She had returned to Morrowind even before the king's army had left, preferring a life as a wanted fugitive to a free existence in the cold of Skyrim. All the weeds in the courtyard had been devoured by the rear-guard's sixteenth day manning Cascabel Hall. The entire castle had been scoured: rotten tubers in the mulch pile found and consumed, a dusty bouquet in the countess's bedchamber eaten, almost every rat and insect but the most cunning infesting the castle walls had been tracked down and gobbled up. The castellan's chambers, filled with acrid, inedible law books, had yielded up a couple crumbs of bread. Menegur had even scraped moss from the stones. There was no denying it: he would be dead from starvation before his army returned to break the ranks of the enemies who surrounded the fortress. "The worst part," said Menegur, who had taken to talking to himself on only the second day alone in the castle. "Is how close sustenance is." A vast arbor of golden apples stretched acre after acre near the castle walls. The sunlight cast a seductive gleam on the fruit, and the cruel wind carried sweet smells into Cascabel to torture him. Like most Bosmer, Menegur was an archer. He was a master of long and medium distance fighting, but in close quarters, as he would be if he dared to leave the castle and enter the enemy camp in the arbor, he knew he would not last long. At some point, he knew he would have to try, but he had been dreading the day. It was upon him now. Menegur put on the netch armor for the first time, feeling the powdery, almost velvet texture of the rendered leather against his skin. There was also a barely perceptible throb, which he recognized as the remnant nematocysts of the netch's venomous flesh, still tingling months after its death with domesticated poison. The combination made him feel energized. Aerin had described the sensation perfectly, just as she had explained how to defend himself while wearing netch leather armor. Under cover of night, Menegur crept out of the back gate of the castle, locking it behind him with a rather cumbersome key. He made for the arbor as quietly as he could, but a passing sentry, coming behind a tree, saw him. Remaining calm, Menegur did as he remembered Aerin had instructed, only moving after the attack had been launched. The sentry's blade glided against the armor and knocked to the left, throwing the young man off balance. That was the trick, as he understood it: you had to be prepared to be hit, and merely move with the blow, allowing the membranous armor to divert the injury away. Use your enemy's momentum against him, as Aerin used to say. There were several more close encounters in the arbor, but each swing of an ax and each thrust of a sword found purchase elsewhere. With handfuls of apples, Menegur ran the gauntlet back to the castle. He locked the back gate door behind him and fell into an orgy of eating. For week after week, the Bosmer stole out to gather his food. The guards began anticipating his raids, but he kept his schedule irregular and always remembered when attacked to wait for the blow, accept it, and then turn. In such a way, he lived and survived his lonely vigil in Cascabel Hall. Four months later, as he was preparing for another seizure of apples, Menegur heard a loud clamor at the front gate. Surveying the group from a safe distance on the battlements, he saw the shields of the King of Solitude, his ally the Count of Cascabel, and their enemy the King of Farrun. Evidently, a truce had been called. Menegur opened the gates and the combined armies flooded the courtyard. Many of the knights of Farrun sought to shake the hand of the man they had named the Shadow of the Arbor, expressing their admiration at his defensive skills and apologizing good-naturedly for their attempts to slay him. Only doing their job, you know. "There's hardly a apple left on the vines," said the King of Solitude. "Well, I started on the edges and worked my way in," explained Menegur. "I brought back extra fruit to tempt the rats of out of walls so I could have a little meat as well." "We've spent the last several months working out the details of the truce," said the King. "Really quite exhausting. In any rate, the Count will be taking back possession of his castle now, but there is a small detail we need to work out. You're a mercenary, and as such responsible for your own expenses. If you had been a subject of mine, things might be different, but there are certain old rules of law that must be respected." Menegur anticipated the strike. "The problem is," the King continued. "You've taken a good deal of the Count's crops while here. By any reasonable computation, you've eaten an amount equal to and likely exceeding your mercenary's wages. Obviously, I would not want to penalize you for the excellent job you've done defending the castle in uncomfortable circumstances, but you agree that it's important that we observe the old rules of law, don't you?" "Of course," replied Menegur, accepting the blow. "I'm delighted to hear that," said the King. "Our estimation is that you owe the Count of Cascabel thirty-seven Imperial gold." "Which I will gladly pay to myself, with interest, after the autumntide harvest," said Menegur. "There is more left on the vine than you suggest." The Kings of Solitude and Farrun, and the Count of Cascabel stared at the Bosmer. "We agreed to abide to the strictest old rules of law, and I've had time to read a great many books over the time you were making your truce. In 3E 246, during the reign of Uriel IV, the Imperial Council, in an attempt to clear up some questions of property rights in Skyrim during those chaotic days, decreed that any man without a liege who occupied a castle for more than three months would be granted the rights and titles of that estate. It's a good law, of course, meant to discourage absent and foreign landlords." Menegur smiled, feeling the now familiar sensation of a glancing strike diverting. "By the rule of law, I am the Count of Cascabel." The rear-guard's son still hold the title of Count of Cascabel. And he grows the finest, most delectable apples in the Empire.
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 07:28
|
|
|
The Dance in Fire skillbooks are awesome as well, and the ending of part 7 is the most moment when Scotti realizes the Bosmer king killed his former colleagues, prepared them as a fine dried roast, and sent them to an Imperial banquet in Cyrodiil to "celebrate" the signing of war profiteering contracts at Valenwood's expense.
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 07:36
|
|
|
Minarchist posted:The Dance in Fire skillbooks are awesome as well, and the ending of part 7 is the most Bosmer own. Bosmer and Breton 4 Lyfe.
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 07:41
|
|
|
Bosmer are the only cool elves. Imagine how much better LOTR would be if legolas was a crazy cannibalistic kletpo.
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 07:48
|
|
|
quote:Of all the members of the Morag Tong I've spoken with, none disturbed me as much as Minas Torik. A quiet and reserved man who never drank, never visited a brothel or even uttered a curse, he was famous for his ability to make people disappear. Once a person was targeted by the Brotherhood and Torik was sent to them, they would simply cease to be. I asked him once what his weapon of choice was, and was equally startled by his answer. - The Axe Man
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 08:22
|
|
|
|
| # ? Jun 3, 2024 10:48 |
|
|
WanderingMinstrel I posted:Light Armor, best skill, best skill book I see your light armor and raise you a medium armor. http://www.imperial-library.info/content/bone A story about creation of first bonemold armor and how its victims came back for revenge.
|
|
#
?
Mar 1, 2014 08:59
|
|
