Lokonikah

( Just said that I changed it up some. He isn't of the Knights. He's part of my own, custom organization that are basically Templars. )

(My bad, I didn't know that you changed it that much. As a major organization in Cyrodil, would Scipio know about them? He spends most of his time just gathering information, and he has a lot of contacts. If so, can you PM me the lore behind the organization? thanks!)

Emily searched through the bag that Scipio gave them each, she got out the bedroll and tied the rest of the bag back up "Oh don't worry I won't be needing a tent" Said Emily as she pulled the materials for the tent and gently placed them on the ground as she layed her bed roll down nicely on the ground. She started to create a thick layer of ice that went up and the down in a crystalized fashion, it wasn't long until Emily had a good enough tent, made of frost, that was large enough to fit 2 people aswell. She went into the ice made tent and layed down, on her back, and began to read.

Dovah jun
((My skelly has very important info please read all))

(So, he was trapped in the void until he mastered it, and now he's looking to go to a mage's college? Also, he's both mortal/dragon? Am I missing anything?)

Eivor slowly entered the tent and sat in front of him, running a hand through her length of white hair to tame it. "No need, I can never seem to get to sleep anyway." She said truthfully, watching as he produced a wineskin. Her gaze went a little solemn as he mentioned her bloodstarved status when she first entered the inn. "Yeah... It turns my stomach to take the lives of the innocent." She said quietly, eyeing the wineskin when he handed it to her. She was silent for a moment, putting two and two together in her head. "So this is what you served me at the inn, correct?" She gratefully took it and glanced down into the red liquid. "... Thank you. I was moments away from losing my grip and doing something stupid like attacking the knight I travel with." She gave a faint laugh at that, closing the wineskin tight.

"..." She went quiet again at his last sentence, her expression darkening as she glanced aside. "I had no choice in the matter. I used to be a wealthy merchants daughter, believe it or not." She sighed and tucked the wineskin in her satchel. "But my fathers ship was attacked by pirates and my brother and I were sold to vampire covens. Thankfully he got slavework, I don't know what I would do if he was put up for sacrifice like I was." She paused for a moment, looking down at a lock of hair. "... I got free, obviously."

"We were all actually on our way to Morthal to cure the mage and I of our vampirism..." She frowned a bit, her memories returning to her brother. "... But I don't think I can go without taking my brother with. Arnbjorn, he was the man in the corner of the inn you mentioned."  She was quiet for another moment before shaking her head; She was getting awfully personal, was it the hour of night that made her so eager to talk? Either way it felt nice to just let it out. "... Sorry. I'm likely boring you with my tales." 

As Eivor spoke of her past, Scipio's mouth twitched the fraction of an inch. For a moment he looked terribly sad, as if he had lived too long and seen too much sorrow. And then it was gone, replaced by his usual attentiveness. When she finished speaking, a sad smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Nonsense. I am a bard and you are both beutiful and a wonderful storyteller. And I promise I will help find your brother. But it is late, and I know you're tired." Standing, he began to reach for the opening tent-flap. 

"And Eivor," pausing just before opening it "you may not have chosen to be ill, but what you've chosen to do with your illness is remarkable."

For the second time that night, he opened the door for her and stepped aside.

(Had to alter my post. thought I put something in that I didn't. scipio is going to help find arnbjorn. Sorry!)

Eivor rubbed her eyes, feeling the fatigue take its toll on her muscles. He was right; after such an emotional day she needed her rest. She slowly stood up and made her way to the door of the tent, taking a moment to take in his words of parting. She looked up at him and gave him the faintest smile as response before making her way back outside. "Night. Don't let the wolves bite." She said in a joking matter as she passed him, crossing over to her tent. 

She entered her tent and nearly collapsed into her bedroll, her hair pooling around in a white flood. She closed her eyes and tried her hardest to relax and shut out her worried thoughts. After all, soon, her adventure would be at its end and she would have her brother back. She just had to cure them and maybe soon after they could return to the sea in their own merchant ship...

She highly doubted she would return to her life on the sea but nonetheless the daydreams comforted her enough to let her drowse off into a light sleep.

(from this point on, once a day at some downtime when he's alone, scipio will drink from his blood-filled wineskin followed by a potion to get rid of the smell if he doesn't feed on a person. When he starts to run out I'll write that in. I just don't feel like writing "Scipio takes a drink of his medicine" every day.)

(We should probably wait for Falin and Makor to do their thing and sleep tonight before dealing with the giant-hunting dragon)

Unable to get sleep, Hjalund slowly sits up in his bedroll. Looking around for a moment, he looks over to his armor, all neatly arranged, as always. With a sigh, he begins the process of slipping it on. After a few minutes, he steps outside his tent, helmet covering his head and sword and mace hanging from his belt, the last strap on his left gauntlet being tightened. He pauses, turning to look over to Eivor's tent. After hearing her serene words, he lets out a soft, regretful sigh, watching his breath turn to steam in the cold night air.

With a shake of his head, he finds the stump he was sitting at earlier, when he was still wounded, and places himself on it. He draws his sword, once again looking over its design, with an onyx crystal in the pommel of the handle, grip extending out of a Legendary dragon's gaping maw, wings forming the hand guard while its great tail snakes up the blade, ending at the tip of the bloodwell (The indentation in a sword's blade which allows blood to flow faster out of the wound). Inside the bloodwell, there are a series on inscriptions in an ancient runic language.

After a moment's studying, he sighs once more, sticking the sword tip-first into the ash and snow-covered ground, reaching his hands up to remove his helmet and run a metal hand through shoulder-length dirty blonde hair. Steel gray eyes hold memories, memories of a long, war-filled life. And hate, always constant, always burning, coupled with a religious fervor not seen since the days of Reman Cyrodiil or Tiber Septim.

Unable to get sleep, Hjalund slowly sits up in his bedroll. Looking around for a moment, he looks over to his armor, all neatly arranged, as always. With a sigh, he begins the process of slipping it on. After a few minutes, he steps outside his tent, helmet covering his head and sword and mace hanging from his belt, the last strap on his left gauntlet being tightened. He pauses, turning to look over to Eivor's tent. After hearing her serene words, he lets out a soft, regretful sigh, watching his breath turn to steam in the cold night air.

With a shake of his head, he finds the stump he was sitting at earlier, when he was still wounded, and places himself on it. He draws his sword, once again looking over its design, with an onyx crystal in the pommel of the handle, grip extending out of a Legendary dragon's gaping maw, wings forming the hand guard while its great tail snakes up the blade, ending at the tip of the bloodwell (The indentation in a sword's blade which allows blood to flow faster out of the wound). Inside the bloodwell, there are a series on inscriptions in an ancient runic language.

After a moment's studying, he sighs once more, sticking the sword tip-first into the ash and snow-covered ground, reaching his hands up to remove his helmet and run a metal hand through shoulder-length dirty blonde hair. Steel gray eyes hold memories, memories of a long, war-filled life. And hate, always constant, always burning, coupled with a religious fervor not seen since the days of Reman Cyrodiil or Tiber Septim.

Dovah jun
(Ok onikhefhah will do but still fun to say and I'll kill a few giants before y'all get to me I'm a side story that will join in with y'alls )

(Sounds like a lot of fun! :))