Martin isn't sure if he should be unnerved by the fact that he's been in this realm already and does not recall it, or that he's been revived twice and does not recall it.
When he chose to become the Avatar of Akatosh, the Dragon God of Time, he should've expected side-effects. But he never expected to be caught in a thread of space-time (alive and well!) outside of Nirn, again. The Nine work in strange ways, he knows that better than anyone, but he can't help but be annoyed.
At the moment, he doesn't care for the Initiative or their plight. Instead, he's focused on researchβreading the network for his previous self's entries and comments, turning the library upside-down in hopes of finding a reason for his revival, and a need to get his bearings without outside help.
But there's so much learning and researching a mortal mind can take before needing a break.
Hacking off his singed locks, his appearance is different enough that no one should recognize him for the long-haired, craggy-faced healer he'd been. It's been years since he's sported short hair, the typical shaggy locks of Imperials bouncing off his forehead in a manner he'll have to re-acquaint himself with. Ironically enough, the last time his hair was this short, his life had change completely too.
Martin doesn't want to think about Sanguine and his cult. What he wants is release the magicka boiling his blood, the remnants of his fiery death and Akatosh' power surging throughout his body. The Initiative spoke of training rooms in their hold, so that seems like the natural place to let off some magic.
Until his nostrils are assaulted with a familiar odor so pungent, he nearly throws up.
Daedric magic.
His hood is pulled up as he surreptitiously advances upon its source, a heavy pack. Its owner, a woman who has to be an Imperial, is too busy shattering dummies with her warhammer. Red-pink petals jut out of her pack, and Martin has to bite his tongue not to scream in anger.
The Sanguine Rose.
This woman has Sanguine's artifact.
Viscerally, Martin casts Blizzard. A snowstorm quickly surges inside the room, reducing visibility to near zero, except for its caster. Martin grabs the Rose, tosses the pack aside and leaps out of the room, promising he'll apologize once this tool of pain and mischief is obliterated from this realm.
no subject
When he chose to become the Avatar of Akatosh, the Dragon God of Time, he should've expected side-effects. But he never expected to be caught in a thread of space-time (alive and well!) outside of Nirn, again. The Nine work in strange ways, he knows that better than anyone, but he can't help but be annoyed.
At the moment, he doesn't care for the Initiative or their plight. Instead, he's focused on researchβreading the network for his previous self's entries and comments, turning the library upside-down in hopes of finding a reason for his revival, and a need to get his bearings without outside help.
But there's so much learning and researching a mortal mind can take before needing a break.
Hacking off his singed locks, his appearance is different enough that no one should recognize him for the long-haired, craggy-faced healer he'd been. It's been years since he's sported short hair, the typical shaggy locks of Imperials bouncing off his forehead in a manner he'll have to re-acquaint himself with. Ironically enough, the last time his hair was this short, his life had change completely too.
Martin doesn't want to think about Sanguine and his cult. What he wants is release the magicka boiling his blood, the remnants of his fiery death and Akatosh' power surging throughout his body. The Initiative spoke of training rooms in their hold, so that seems like the natural place to let off some magic.
Until his nostrils are assaulted with a familiar odor so pungent, he nearly throws up.
Daedric magic.
His hood is pulled up as he surreptitiously advances upon its source, a heavy pack. Its owner, a woman who has to be an Imperial, is too busy shattering dummies with her warhammer. Red-pink petals jut out of her pack, and Martin has to bite his tongue not to scream in anger.
The Sanguine Rose.
This woman has Sanguine's artifact.
Viscerally, Martin casts Blizzard. A snowstorm quickly surges inside the room, reducing visibility to near zero, except for its caster. Martin grabs the Rose, tosses the pack aside and leaps out of the room, promising he'll apologize once this tool of pain and mischief is obliterated from this realm.