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Idiot Challenges: Episode One Backstory for Grizz Manbeef
#1
Diary of a Traveling Breton
Turdas, Seventh of Sun’s Height


While on my travels braving the weather and local flavor of Skyrim, I chanced upon a main road that took me into the southern city of Riften. Seeking shelter, I traded 20 septims and a sweetroll to the guard and was allowed shelter for the night at the Bee and Barb inn. That’s where I met him.

“Met” is an interesting word to use for such a character. As I entered the Barb, the sound of raucous applause was deafening. The patrons were cheering “Manbeef” loudly as a man, nearly 7 feet in height and apparently chiseled from the Nord equivalent of corundum, was completing a Cheese Wheel eating contest. Having discarded his rind-victims near his feet, he was about 4 wheels in while his challengers were barely past their second. As he finished the fifth, he yelled loudly, startling his foes, and slammed his fist down on the table demanding mead. A Black-Briar servant hurried up and the pub watched, astonished, as he drained the whole bottle into his gullet. With his enemies humiliated and coin piling up on the table for his efforts, he packed his satchel and headed off to the upstairs beds for the night. He eyed my body up and down before going up the stairs, winked at me, and invited me up. I politely declined. The world was dangerous enough without being known at the woman who lays with cheese-eating man-mountains.

I was astonished, mostly because it seemed so… normal. The patrons laughed and cheered and went back to their business. The Argonians, whose names I can never speak much less write, (Talented Jay? I don’t even know) seemed pleased with the increased sales, I have to assume. I was told well beforehand that Riften was slowly starving for coin and this certainly shirked that rumor easily. I sat down with a curiously overconfident man named Marcurio and began writing down the stories and rumors of Riften in exchange for feeding him.
I was about 2 pages deep when a woman, clad in greyish iron, made a hasty exit. I never saw her face and wasn’t planning to make note of it if it weren’t for the howling upstairs that came shortly after she left. Manbeef, as they called him, came tumbling down the stairs drunk, naked as the day he was born, with the bedposts still tied to his wrists, and howling about money and some blonde whore that had cheated him. He threw his fists about left and right in a rage, knocking out Louis Letrush and earning him the attention of the Riften guards. He disappeared for the night.

Fredas, Eighth of Sun’s Height

I woke up to the smell of warm apple pie and bacon, and thoroughly checked to make sure none of my wares had been compromised. Finding that I had not been thieved from in the night, I took to packing up for my long walk to Markarth. I heard yet another commotion from the walkway outside, so I exited the Barb as quickly as I could. An Imperial Courier had found his way into Riften and must have really given someone the stink-eye, because he was being actively pursued by four guards. As he rounded the catwalks towards Mistveil Keep, “Manbeef” came stumbling from the jail’s entrance and grabbed him by the throat. In one swift motion he snapped the Imperial’s neck and walked off with him. He walked through the town, the imperial dangling limply from his wrist, directly to me. I was flustered. Was this a gift? A warning? A really bad misunderstanding? He stopped right in front of me.

                “Skyrim belongs to the Nords.” He uttered, and tossed the body aside.

                “You’re absolutely right!” I stammered, too scared to get out of his way.

                “Is there a reason why you’re blocking my way?” He snarled. He burped and wiped his mouth. “You have any news from the north, foreigner?

Funny little side note about my family. We’re a proud lineage of runners and bleeders, gifted with a tongue for getting us out of trouble. I’m a little lacking in those skills, and that’s why I’m out here… To prove to myself and my family that I have what it takes to be a masterful silver-tongue. When pressed under great stress and facing possible death, though, I make for really unconvincing lies.

                “Yes, actually. The Jarl of Whiterun is offering Lordship to any man brave enough to prove themselves strong enough to… kill a dragon!” I lied, desperate to say anything to get him defused from the vacant look of rage in his eyes. I remembered that Dragons no longer existed, and my stomach knotted up tight. The stench of mead on his breath, however, gave me a slim hope he might buy it.

His stare softened.

                “Shit, I could do that. Where’s Whiterun?” He asked, stripping the courier of his armor while I answered, trying to hide the trace amount of water I’d made in my pants.

I pointed vaguely in the right direction. “Just past the Throat of the World, look for the castle in the worst strategic location ever, can’t miss it.”

He huffed and nodded. He pushed me aside and had what looked like humbling words with Louis Letrush, who was nursing a sore jaw. After some light argument, he left the Barb and I never saw him again.

I should desperately love to find this man again, to ease my conscience. I pray to the Nine he didn’t die out there for my feverish lie.
Anything's a double entendre if you push hard enough. So I gave it to her.
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#2
I'm already a Grizz Manbeef fanboi. I hope the Travelling Breton chronicles more of Manbeef's shenanigans, and perhaps even those of future adventurers?
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#3
Switch! This made my morning! Please keep us informed! You should do a daily blog of Mr Manbeefs escapades!
"If It Ain't Broke, Fix It Anyway!"
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#4
I'm not sure where...                        

         ...I'm not sure how...

....but it seems that someone has recovered the ancient crest of House Manbeef!

[Image: vOQeZVk.png]


// Was inspired by your stream today, and wanted to give House Manbeef the sigil it deserved to go with such a wonderful motto! Hope you like it! //
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#5
(12-07-2016, 21:51)Jaarka Wrote:
I'm not sure where...                        

         ...I'm not sure how...

....but it seems that someone has recovered the ancient crest of House Manbeef!

[Image: vOQeZVk.png]


// Was inspired by your stream today, and wanted to give House Manbeef the sigil it deserved to go with such a wonderful motto! Hope you like it! //

Brother let me tell you, I just shit your pants. Thank you SOOOO MUCH.
Anything's a double entendre if you push hard enough. So I gave it to her.
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#6
The diary approach like this is really neat ... I'm eager to see what more is added to the story so I can stay on top of streams I might miss!
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#7
Diary of a Traveling Breton
Fredas, Twenty-Sixth of Heartfire

It is said that everything happens for a reason, but those caught in the wake of the drunken Nord they now call Dragon-Puncher would tell a very different story. His senseless and needlessly violent streak of accomplishments is impressive, to say the least, but did they all really happen? It would seem so, by the accounts of every drunk and noble from Riften to Markarth to Whiterun and back, which gives me pause.

It's my fault, you see.

A few months ago I'd met him in a bar, earning coin by out-eating the competition in Eidar Cheese wheels, and then witnessed him getting robbed by the next morning and jailed for his reaction. In my flummoxed state, as he encountered me after his jail release, I'd tried to deflect his rage into something ineffable. That Dragons were real, and the Jarl of Whiterun was offering Lordship to anyone who could slay one.

Grizz Manbeef disappeared that day into the forest. I thought I'd sent a drunk to his death.

Then I started hearing reports. Innocuous ones at first, of a man who beat down the entire Black-Briar security force over the matter of a horse and left the estate without a drop of mead. Then, slowly, they started to grow into a pattern. I began taking notes, and pinning them to the wall in my room at the Bee and Barb, watching his movements. There was the bandit camp near Ambrosia cave, whose inhabitants' skulls were all caved in. Hallmark of his brutality. He was alive, and he was on the move! Someone stumbled on an old orc on the pass to Helgen... dubious, but possible. I marked it on my list. There were sightings of a brutish man in Riverrun... I wrote that down too, just in case. Then for sure, reports came in of the brutal manhandling of a Talos Priest in Whiterun, fitting perfectly in the timeline. He'd made it! I set out immediately.

I took a carriage to Whiterun and was near Honningbrew when I saw it... a Dragon swooping around a ruined Guard Tower... it landed and took off several times, then landed for good. I paid the man and ran to the tower, only to see what I could only describe as the most barbaric form of gloating after a victory.

He was using parts of the dragon's claws as tools to play the dragon's ribcage like a Marimba, and singing a foul tune full of vulgar obscenities.

I was relieved to see him alive, but the Bannered Mare that night painted a picture of a man still not sure in his abilities. Every time someone congratulated him, he'd glance over at Irileth, who'd been there with her guards. He didn't believe he'd done it himself. He clearly showed it in his glances and posture.

He disappeared in the morning, patrons saying something about taking on the pits, but nobody registered in Windhelm's arena. I lost all track of him for several weeks until reports surfaced in Riften again... a golden armored automaton had walked into the orphanage and crushed Grelod the Kind without breaking a sweat, or his stride. I added all these notes to my wall, and started drawing timelines between them to calculate movement. It was certainly plausible.

Riverrun was beset upon by a Dragon not long thereafter, and reports of a man in golden elvish armor, reeking of Eidar and dripping with what was hopefully ale from his greaves, leapt into the fray and slaughtered the beast with his bare hands. As the residents settled in for the night, they thought the heard faint sounds of a marimba in the woods, but dismissed the idea as "too soothing to be of any worry".

I am loathe to think too hard on what I've done. I've set into motion a man whose potential is seemingly limitless. I eagerly and fearfully anticipate the next report of where he turns up.
Anything's a double entendre if you push hard enough. So I gave it to her.
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#8
[Image: 1b81ac32f8e1b8a5bda2446b58d21722a72d9772_hq.gif]
Anything's a double entendre if you push hard enough. So I gave it to her.
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#9
Reading this after the fact is almost better than watching it live. 

Truly beautiful.
Hey.

I'm me.


Yup.  Smile
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#10
I miss the diary ...
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