High Ordinator.
Currently personal guard for hire.
That's all you need to know.
[[ A Skyrim role play blog following a High Ordinator and former Her Hands member. Hover over the sidebar title for directionary. ]]
Good evening, sir. -shallow bow-
Mortal.
A set of crimson eyes, barely visible behind the elegantly cut eye-pieces, exchanged glances at either beings before him. One appeared Redguard, the other, a female Dremora.
What an unusual pairing.
“Evening.” His Dunmer orientated voice was evident - gravelly in both atmosphere and tone; Reloth offered both a curt nod of his head.
Despite the stiff greeting, Kaye persisted with a slight smile. “My name is Kaye Selone. A pleasure.” He gestures to the dremora, who only huffs at his display of manners. “And this is Ramuset. What might we call you?”
“Why is an Ordinator in Skyrim.” Ramuset’s blunt tone turns the question into a statement.
“Reloth. Reloth Telvayn.” Out of instinctive measure, Reloth craned his head towards the female Dremora; her blunt tone, thick with the cackles of another plane, proved unsurprising considering previous scuffs with her kind.
“Personal reasons.” The Mer did not expand on such matters, only casting his stare upon the Redguard once again - the pin-pricked pupils burrowing firm into the man’s dark features. He seemed far less rough around the edges - most men whom he encountered were rigid, skin stiffened to a crisp by their environments.
“What brings you to me?” Reloth was as curt as he would be - it was quite clear that this would not change.
Good evening, sir. -shallow bow-
Mortal.
A set of crimson eyes, barely visible behind the elegantly cut eye-pieces, exchanged glances at either beings before him. One appeared Redguard, the other, a female Dremora.
What an unusual pairing.
“Evening.” His Dunmer orientated voice was evident - gravelly in both atmosphere and tone; Reloth offered both a curt nod of his head.
“Why get hurt?” he continued to question, putting his hands at his sides for a moment, before he needed to fidget with something and tugged on his kilt a bit, swishing his arms from side to side with the edges in his grasp.
“Rémi not touch spiky things, or burning things, is know better!” he proclaimed. This elf must now know how he’d already learned his lesson with those things. Silly elf!
“If you touch something that someone doesn’t want you to touch, they could hurt you.” Another near feigned sigh parted from the Dunmer’s lips - yet this emotional exhale fell flat against his dead tone, resistant to spikes that the normal mortal voice part to.
Dealing with Rémi was such as dealing with a child - bloated with persistence woven with potent petulance; even peppered with obliviousness. However, Reloth rigid personality refused to let itself become tied to the strings of a child’s whim. He still retained his curt responses, an intimidating posture garnered through years with the Law Enforcement quarters in Mournhold, and his overall atmosphere.
“Why? Hurting is bad!” He pouted. “Rémi not want get hurt. Is want touch things! Is not reason for someone hurt Rémi. People who hurt is mean!” He puffed up in defiance to what Reloth was saying, and what his body language was saying. He was being.. being no fun!
Well fine, if he couldn’t touch the pretty mask, he’d touch the mer’s arm instead! So he did, grabbing his arm and giving Reloth a stubborn look. Winning this argument might prove fatal….
This human lacked chastisement. His sheer stubbornness and persistence were akin to a child - in both form and in applied reflection. The children of Mournhold stood a stark contrast to the man-child before him - they understood the strict caste difference between themselves and higher authorities. In places such as Vivec, some of the Ordinators were not prejudice against gender or age - if a child misbehaved, they received the full penalty.
Reloth slowly resumed his natural stature - body erect as the action craned Rémi’s upwards in response. The pair of crimson eyes were cast downwards, borrowing into Rémi’s being before parting his lips to verbally proceed, “Do you not have guardians to return to?”
“You cannot simply touch all that you wish.” Reloth held the hands firm - holding them at adequate distance - limiting the Breton’s viable volition. Despite the lacking information, the words that danced impassively across the edge of his tongue were laced with the mortal-burdened sin of truth - for, touching something that was not allow could lead to a vicious backlash on Rémi’s person.
In all reality, Reloth did not enjoy individuals other than himself touching or adjusting his mask. It had since been nigh two centuries since the Accession War, and Reloth had still managed to hold his armour in one piece - he wished for it to stay that way.
“Why?” He whined further. He clearly didn’t understand what was wrong with touching all the things he wanted to touch. He had never encountered much of valuable, delicate things to get chastised for breaking, nor had he spent much time around dangerous magical artifacts. He touched animals and rocks and walls and pretty much everything mundane.
He pouted up at the Ordinator, and tried to wiggle his hands out of the grasp, not trying very hard as he simply wanted Reloth to let him go.
“I do not want you to touch it.” Beneath the layer of metal, the impassive visage succumbed - easing in the slightest of emotion by having the corners of his lips inch down in what appeared an attempt to frown. Despite this, he remained knelt, yet his hands retracted from the firm grip they possessed on Rémi’s wrist.
“If you touch all, you might get hurt.”
“Why get hurt?” he continued to question, putting his hands at his sides for a moment, before he needed to fidget with something and tugged on his kilt a bit, swishing his arms from side to side with the edges in his grasp.
“Rémi not touch spiky things, or burning things, is know better!” he proclaimed. This elf must now know how he’d already learned his lesson with those things. Silly elf!
“If you touch something that someone doesn’t want you to touch, they could hurt you.” Another near feigned sigh parted from the Dunmer’s lips - yet this emotional exhale fell flat against his dead tone, resistant to spikes that the normal mortal voice part to.
Dealing with Rémi was such as dealing with a child - bloated with persistence woven with potent petulance; even peppered with obliviousness. However, Reloth rigid personality refused to let itself become tied to the strings of a child’s whim. He still retained his curt responses, an intimidating posture garnered through years with the Law Enforcement quarters in Mournhold, and his overall atmosphere.
Rémi didn’t seem bothered by the eyes he saw through the mask, much more preoccupied with the hands on his wrists, preventing him from touching the shiny thing. He pouted at the Ordinator, and gave a whine.
“Why no can touch?” he asked, voice laced with petulance. He really wanted to touch it, and like most children, he’d fuss until he got his way. Or at least until whining proved to be a bad idea.
“You cannot simply touch all that you wish.” Reloth held the hands firm - holding them at adequate distance - limiting the Breton’s viable volition. Despite the lacking information, the words that danced impassively across the edge of his tongue were laced with the mortal-burdened sin of truth - for, touching something that was not allow could lead to a vicious backlash on Rémi’s person.
In all reality, Reloth did not enjoy individuals other than himself touching or adjusting his mask. It had since been nigh two centuries since the Accession War, and Reloth had still managed to hold his armour in one piece - he wished for it to stay that way.
“Why?” He whined further. He clearly didn’t understand what was wrong with touching all the things he wanted to touch. He had never encountered much of valuable, delicate things to get chastised for breaking, nor had he spent much time around dangerous magical artifacts. He touched animals and rocks and walls and pretty much everything mundane.
He pouted up at the Ordinator, and tried to wiggle his hands out of the grasp, not trying very hard as he simply wanted Reloth to let him go.
“I do not want you to touch it.” Beneath the layer of metal, the impassive visage succumbed - easing in the slightest of emotion by having the corners of his lips inch down in what appeared an attempt to frown. Despite this, he remained knelt, yet his hands retracted from the firm grip they possessed on Rémi’s wrist.
“If you touch all, you might get hurt.”
Rémi was surprised somewhat as he was pushed away, and looked at Reloth in confusion, before understanding what he was doing as he knelt down. He gave a happy squeal and reached out, forgetting the earlier distinction made between seeing and touching, placing his hands on the mask and looking at it interestedly.It was so shiny! He really liked it! It also looked like a face, though he didn’t think that it made much sense. Why would your mask have a face, if you had one too? It was silly. But, still very neat!
“Pretty!” he chirped.
With a mildly feigned exasperated sigh, Reloth’s hands stiffly reached outward - thick fingers coiling firm around Rémi’s wrists in order to crane them away from the metal.
“Remember what we talked about.” The Ordinator was as curt as ever, his gleaming crimson eyes evident from within the carved eye-pieces. Only a pin-prick indicated the existence of a pupil, the iris having sufficiently moulded with the sclera.
Rémi didn’t seem bothered by the eyes he saw through the mask, much more preoccupied with the hands on his wrists, preventing him from touching the shiny thing. He pouted at the Ordinator, and gave a whine.
“Why no can touch?” he asked, voice laced with petulance. He really wanted to touch it, and like most children, he’d fuss until he got his way. Or at least until whining proved to be a bad idea.
“You cannot simply touch all that you wish.” Reloth held the hands firm - holding them at adequate distance - limiting the Breton’s viable volition. Despite the lacking information, the words that danced impassively across the edge of his tongue were laced with the mortal-burdened sin of truth - for, touching something that was not allow could lead to a vicious backlash on Rémi’s person.
In all reality, Reloth did not enjoy individuals other than himself touching or adjusting his mask. It had since been nigh two centuries since the Accession War, and Reloth had still managed to hold his armour in one piece - he wished for it to stay that way.
He knew seeing was different than touching! But sometimes he wanted to do both! Or needed one to do the other! And he was glad he was allowed to see, but….“Elf too tall!” he whined slightly, and placed his hands on Reloth’s chest, trying to use him as leverage to make himself jump higher, to see the mask with better clarity. He was way too tall! Rémi was barely above five and a half feet tall, and it was impossible to see the top of the mask from where he was.
He also, apparently, had no trouble touching strangers.
Rémi was bloated in the distinct essence of a erratic child - this exhibition coating him fully, and making it quite so apparent to the over seven foot Dunmer.
Promptly, either of Reloth’s hands jut forwards in order to develop distance between them; his movements were stiff, interlaced with heavy militaristic styles - a consequence from his strict upbringing.
Once this was completed, the Ordinator shifted himself in order to levy weight onto his left side, before lowering himself down upon a single knee. This enabled them to harbour eye-leveled contact - allowing Rémi to visually, and thoroughly, dissect his lavish mask.
Rémi was surprised somewhat as he was pushed away, and looked at Reloth in confusion, before understanding what he was doing as he knelt down. He gave a happy squeal and reached out, forgetting the earlier distinction made between seeing and touching, placing his hands on the mask and looking at it interestedly.
It was so shiny! He really liked it! It also looked like a face, though he didn’t think that it made much sense. Why would your mask have a face, if you had one too? It was silly. But, still very neat!
“Pretty!” he chirped.
With a mildly feigned exasperated sigh, Reloth’s hands stiffly reached outward - thick fingers coiling firm around Rémi’s wrists in order to crane them away from the metal.
“Remember what we talked about.” The Ordinator was as curt as ever, his gleaming crimson eyes evident from within the carved eye-pieces. Only a pin-prick indicated the existence of a pupil, the iris having sufficiently moulded with the sclera.
“M-mourn… um…” He blinked and then frowned, an expression of confusion. He had no idea what any of that meant! An occupation was…. was a job? Right? He wasn’t sure, but what ‘High Ordinter’ meant he had no clue.“Um…. why is not want let Rémi see?” he asked, hoping Reloth would clarify a bit so he could understand why it wasn’t being shared with him. It was shiny! He wanted to see it! And, Reloth was very tall, so it was hard to tell what the face on the mask looked like! He was intensely curious.
Although, previously, Rémi had stated that he wished to see the mask, he also contradicted this statement by an extending of hands - suggesting the childish promise of more being desired. This time he had only commented on the former.
“Seeing is different from touching. I will allow you to see.” It was prominent that Reloth was not going to shift from his impassive stance - rigidly fixed on his choice. Albeit subconscious, the Ordinator looped his arms into a firm knot in order to emphasize this.
The most arduous of succeeding persistence would not of budged his position.
He knew seeing was different than touching! But sometimes he wanted to do both! Or needed one to do the other! And he was glad he was allowed to see, but….
“Elf too tall!” he whined slightly, and placed his hands on Reloth’s chest, trying to use him as leverage to make himself jump higher, to see the mask with better clarity. He was way too tall! Rémi was barely above five and a half feet tall, and it was impossible to see the top of the mask from where he was.
He also, apparently, had no trouble touching strangers.
Rémi was bloated in the distinct essence of a erratic child - this exhibition coating him fully, and making it quite so apparent to the over seven foot Dunmer.
Promptly, either of Reloth’s hands jut forwards in order to develop distance between them; his movements were stiff, interlaced with heavy militaristic styles - a consequence from his strict upbringing.
Once this was completed, the Ordinator shifted himself in order to levy weight onto his left side, before lowering himself down upon a single knee. This enabled them to harbour eye-leveled contact - allowing Rémi to visually, and thoroughly, dissect his lavish mask.
He was delighted to get a response, and seemed unable to stay still for more than a few moments at a time. He swayed his arms from side to side and smiled happily. “Reloth!” He repeated, and then gave a laugh.“Rémi know elf not pick be tall. Rémi not think is do either. If Rémi got pick, is want pick… pick tail!” Oh, he wanted a fuzzy tail! But, people didn’t get to pick how they looked, so it didn’t matter what he wanted.
“Why come is wear mask? Not want take off?” He asked. “Rémi can see mask?” he held out his hands, wanting to touch it.
“… I would prefer that my mask remained within my possession.” Reloth’s eyes narrowed from behind the elegantly carved metal, his stoic nature not faltering underneath the energetic man’s brash and intruding desires; “My mask is from my occupation as High Ordinator of Mournhold..”
The Dunmer wasn’t even certain if the bouncing ball of limbs knew where, or even nigh, Mournhold was. Only time would tell - and he was asserted by precursors that that wouldn’t be long.
“M-mourn… um…” He blinked and then frowned, an expression of confusion. He had no idea what any of that meant! An occupation was…. was a job? Right? He wasn’t sure, but what ‘High Ordinter’ meant he had no clue.
“Um…. why is not want let Rémi see?” he asked, hoping Reloth would clarify a bit so he could understand why it wasn’t being shared with him. It was shiny! He wanted to see it! And, Reloth was very tall, so it was hard to tell what the face on the mask looked like! He was intensely curious.
Although, previously, Rémi had stated that he wished to see the mask, he also contradicted this statement by an extending of hands - suggesting the childish promise of more being desired. This time he had only commented on the former.
“Seeing is different from touching. I will allow you to see.” It was prominent that Reloth was not going to shift from his impassive stance - rigidly fixed on his choice. Albeit subconscious, the Ordinator looped his arms into a firm knot in order to emphasize this.
The most arduous of succeeding persistence would not of budged his position.
As he stood back up, Rémi had to tip his head back to keep looking at his face. Or, trying to look at his face. The mask was in the way still! Was it like some people he knew, and this elf just didn’t want to show his face? Was he hiding? Was he scared? Maybe he thought he was ugly?All these thoughts flit through Rémi’s mind, like insects in the wind, and he hardly had time to grasp one before it was replaced by another. So instead, he replied to the mer.
“Is good butterfly. Is best!” He beamed up at him, and indeed, bounced. “What elf name is? Rémi name is Rémi. Why elf so tall? Is Tall elf?” He didn’t looked like any Altmer that Rémi had ever seen… the clothes didn’t have enough black!
“Hm. Greetings Rémi. My name is Reloth.” The Dunmer’s shoulders squared - albeit intentional; habit - as the Breton proceeded to question his natural stature.
It appeared his height was both a blessing and curse - blessing in terms of his occupation, and curse in terms of social interaction. Despite this, he attempted to garner a suitable response; “My height was not of my choosing.”
He was delighted to get a response, and seemed unable to stay still for more than a few moments at a time. He swayed his arms from side to side and smiled happily. “Reloth!” He repeated, and then gave a laugh.
“Rémi know elf not pick be tall. Rémi not think is do either. If Rémi got pick, is want pick… pick tail!” Oh, he wanted a fuzzy tail! But, people didn’t get to pick how they looked, so it didn’t matter what he wanted.
“Why come is where mask? Not want take off?” He asked. “Rémi can see mask?” he held out his hands, wanting to touch it.
“… I would prefer that my mask remained within my possession.” Reloth’s eyes narrowed from behind the elegantly carved metal, his stoic nature not faltering underneath the energetic man’s brash and intruding desires; “My mask is from my occupation as High Ordinator of Mournhold..”
The Dunmer wasn’t even certain if the bouncing ball of limbs knew where, or even nigh, Mournhold was. Only time would tell - and he was asserted by precursors that that wouldn’t be long.
