Book of Prayers & A Pistol: Inquisitor (Neutral/Good)

You examine many of the items on the wall, shields, armor, assorted blades, maces, flails, clubs, bows and arrows: none of it really speaks to you. then there's a selection of staves and wands and spell-books, which you almost pick-up one of the wands, but you hesitate, turning, almost involuntarily, to look further on, where there is a shelf with several books of prayers, each one using the corresponding holy-symbol of the god or goddess on a long loop of ribbon as a bookmark. However, your eyes slide right to the end, and the holy book of Milani: Goddess of Revolution. Its a short and thin volume, its cover blood red with black letters and the black outline of her holy-symbol of a crimson rose growing from a blood-soaked street. "The Little Red Songbook: Prayers of the Revolution" its title and sub-title read, while at the bottom of the cover are the words, "Songs to fan the flames of Discontent." but your eyes slide a little further, and notice the presence of a box, opened to reveal a small selection of items which appear to be assembled in the service of vampire-hunting, such as vials of holy-water and garlic, but most importantly a dueling pistol with a powder horn and silver bullets. You walk over and look back-and-forth between the two, unable to decide and feeling that you can only take one. You're torn, conflicted, and slowly, agonizingly slowly, you reach for both of them, unable to make a final decision, unstill at last you close your eyes and violently jerk forward to seize both with shaking fingers.

When your eyes open again, you feel sunlight on your skin, and sit up.

You are in the back of a transit-wagon, five other people sit there with you, two women and three men, all looking to be of a similarly adventurous bent to yourself.

"Ah, you're finally awake! We though you might die after we got ambushed by that group of wraiths and we all got level-drained so badly, but we've all pulled through, including you now, it seems. Loosing those levels caused most of us to lose a lot of our memories too, so tell me how much you remember and we'll fill in whatever we can."

You think for a minute, looking at your companions: Three humans, one's male a fair-haired ranger type and the one who was speaking. The second is a darker-haired-and-skinned female soldier, looks like the group's leader, based on the way her high-end gear screams "Officer" for whatever miliary she's part of. Third human's an even-darker-haired woman with pale skin, roguish by the look of her, with her head half-shaved and tattooed on the shaved side with the chorus from "Vampires Beware" out of The Little Red Songbook: "We'll fight them in the Dungeons and we'll fight them in the Streets: We'll fight them in the churchyards, on the moors, and twixt the sheets! The blood-lords rule the land from sunset to sun-rise; but we'll pry their coffins open then, and let the suckers fry!" Her, you remember, really prickly personality but a professional and a fellow worshiper of Milani, so you got-on on that level at least. You look at the other two, one is another Hobbit like yourself, if you had to guess you'd say he's a cleric, though you don't actually see a holy-symbol or anything like that, but he's looking at you with the absolutely CUTEST puppy-dog eyes and...

For a second or five you're somewhere, and somewhen, else: a floating bordello ship, in transit between two continents, and that same halfling's head is between your thighs as he licks your pussy with abandon and gusto, "You're doing great hubby, don't stop!" you admonish him as he pauses to look into your eyes... The flash only lasts a few seconds, but its enough, it appears this guy's your husband.

The last member of the group is an elf, Wood-elf if you had to guess, with his bark-brown skin and dark-green hair. it's pretty obvious what his job is with the team, seeing that he has a raven perched on the top of a gnarled wooden staff with a blue gem-stone anchored into the folds of the wood at the top of it and a thick metal-bound book at his hip: WIZARD. Probably your party's expert for all things arcane.

"Uh, this is awkward, but I don't remember very much at all, except that you", you point at the Rogue, "Are our traps-mistress and my co-religionist, and you," reaching out your hand to your husband, "Are my husband. Other than that I've got effectively nothing, not even names, in fact, not even MY OWN name..." You realize with a shudder.

"Damn, that's worse than I thought. My name's Flora Tullius, I'm from the imperial province of Cyrodil, this here's my husband, our wizard, Maishunialtheri, and the one on the top of his staff is *caw-scree-wargh*: did I get it right this time?" She asks the raven.

"About as close as I think it's possible to do with a human throat, you're going to wreck your voice trying." the raven replies in a feminine posh British accent.

"Anyway, she's our scout, hardly anyone takes a pot-shot at a crow and if they try she's quite dexterous enough to dodge by the time the arrow crosses the distance she'll be observing from." The dark-haired-and-skinned soldier-type explains, confirming your suspicions that she's party-leader. "your husband's name is Drake Dungeoneer comes from a very long line of adventurers, and although he doesn't wear his bonifides as openly as you or our traps-mistress Jade here, he's a cleric of Milani just like you're her Inquisitor. Comes to that most of us are her partisans, even if we don't outright worship her. Me, I'm with her sister Iomidae: the solar crusader, my husband worships Baccob, god of magic, no especial surprise there, and the last member of our troop beside you, well, he likes to speak for himself."

"Yes, I'm a follower of Obad-Hai, husband of Gaia, queen of nature. He came to me in a dream and told me I had to follow the rest of you around and that when the time came I would have further instructions. That happened right after the wraith attack, I'm supposed to keep you all from wrecking the ecology of the area we've been sent to rule over by the Emperor after the storm-crown rebellion Sovenvale, the southern part of The Pale here in Skyrim Province: he suspected that we might get level-drained and as-such we need to be on alert for mistakes managing the local ecology."

Something nags at the back of your mind, ~Skyrim Provence, Cyrodyl, The Pale? Why does all of this seem familiar yet strangely off-kilter?~ You think to yourself, but put those thoughts aside.