This is a private RP and is permanently closed unless any of the members (we know who we are) say anything different to select persons in private. Thank you.
A taste of what's to come...
The Stormcloaks finally summoned enough gull to attack Riften and if not for the heavy stonework, it may very well have been razed. Unfortunately...for the same stonework, plenty of fortified buildings were left over. The Stormcloaks hold Riften as a sort of fort-village for now. It's well defended with sentries and battlements, even down in the sewers... The Ratway had been, unfortunately abandoned by the Thieves Guild - which remains shattered and cast aside. Many died, some escaped, but all of Riften's denizens (Stormcloak denizens aside) were torn from their homes and their way of life by Ulfric Stormcloak's army. Death lines the streets and alleyways of Riften...for both sides.
Name: Piravala Uevayn ("Pira")
Appearance: Pira is of an average height for a dunmer woman, though she is very slim with long, agile fingers. Her skin is a pale gray, her hair an ivory white braided neatly and tucked out of the way beneath her dark, well-worn (though immaculately cared for) leathers. Blood red eyes peruse the world with an almost insolent air, and she often seems lazily amused at the antics of mortal nature.
Your Story So Far: Pira's tale is as heartbreakingly tragic as that of any of her people and, since she would share nothing of her past beyond those very precious few she truly trusts, I will respect her wishes. Suffice it to say that as our tale opens, she is ensconced - quite contentedly - in her cozy home in Riften. That this border town is also the infamous home of the Thieves Guild seems not to bother her in the least...
... And if pressed, she just might admit that, far from being a detriment, that fact is actually quite the bonus.
Skills: Few can match her quick eye, or her skill with bow and arrow. And when it comes to moving silently, past even the most watchful and wary eyes of man or beast, Pira remains as unseen as the wind itself.
Equipment: Beyond her meticulously kept set of dark leathers, Pira also prizes the ebony wood bow she... Ah... Acquired?... During her numerous misadventures, and the matching daggers she keeps tucked away for "emergencies." Without fail, her pack will contain several highly-prized sweet rolls (which she can eat one after the other without, apparently, gaining so much as an ounce of weight), right alongside a leather pouch, rolled tightly, that contains numerous lock picks of various sizes.
Notable Accomplishments: Pira, it must be said, is a consummate thief. To list her more notable accomplishments would, I'm afraid, put her at the mercy of far too many city police authorities - and she's never considered a pile of hay, stone walls and iron bars to be suitable accommodations.
Personality: This dunmer lady thief is a study in contrasts. True, she is a thief - and a very accomplished, prodigious one at that, with an eye for anything and everything that shines and a magpie's resistance to acquiring said object (whether it be safely tucked away in a pocket or behind a thrice-locked door of steel - which only lends to its desirability). And yet she is meticulously honest - almost to a fault really. When Pira chooses to answer a question, she will most certainly reply with the unvarnished truth.
Race means nothing to Pira, nor does the question of Imperial or Stormcloak loyalties (many Imperials being law-and-order killjoys when it comes to making a semi-almost-legal living; and most Stormcloaks being blatantly racist prigs (Gray Quarter, anyone?)). Pira is quick to smile, willing to share a joke or a mug of ale, and is invariably generous to the unfortunate and the poor, many gold pieces finding their way into the grateful hands of poverty-stricken beggars and orphans far and wide.
Theme: Theme Song
Other: If at all possible, Pira will go out of her way to avoid killing someone. Murder is a heinous act in her eyes, and she is most certainly not an assassin. As a matter of fact, she would be mortally offended to be mistaken for one, simply because she is also [frankly, a professional] thief. The only people in all of Tamriel she has a visceral aversion to - no matter their race - are assassins, the Dark Brotherhood and their kindred.
J'Freija stands slightly shorter than your average imperial -a fact exaggerated by her tendency to crouch slightly rather than stand straight. She is lean, with sandy blond fur spotted in deep browns, and seems to move with almost perfect balance. Her eyes are a bright amber, and her mouth is often left hanging partially open, as if she is trying to laugh and smile at the same time.
While her ears end in dark tufts of fur, one is clipped jaggedly short. In addition, a large patch of her stomach has been left bare of fur, showing instead thick scar tissue stretching from her left hip to her navel.
Your Story So Far:
Raised as part of a Khajit merchant caravan, growing up travelling all over Tamriel didn't sate J'Freija's curiosity... but rather intensified it. She wanted to see more than what you could find just off the beaten path, meet more people than the few who bought their wares, explore within the walls of city and town, not just wonder from outside. As such, she struck out on her own shortly after reaching adulthood, carrying a bow and arrows, a mortar and pestle, and skills in hunting, alchemy, and not being seen.
While her fortunes ebb and flow, J'Freija has survived her first couple years as a wandering trader, and shows no signs of wanting to quit. She travels from city to town with offerings of ivory, skins, and potions for your average citizen, as well as poisons, maps, and 'sugar' for citizens of... less than average reputation.
J'Freija learned to hunt and forage at a young age, tasks well suited to a child not-yet trained to barter and bargain. While she has become a respectable -if still learning- merchant in her own right, her marksmanship and alchemical skill remain her greatest strengths. She is no stranger to the shadows, either, having learned the finer arts of stealth through painful necessity.
J'Freija carries a small pack strapped over her quiver, along with a number of pouches across her waist that hold herbs, rations, and materials for mixing potions. She has a short, hunter's bow slung across her back and an ivory-handled knife hung from her hip, but carries no other weapons.
For apparel J'Freija wears simple leather armor fitted loosely enough to hold hidden pockets on their insides, as well as a heavy grey cloak to keep out the weather. She hasn't hunted recently, and so carries no skins or bones in addition to her usual luggage.
J'Freija has survived numerous encounters with thieves, bandits, and the occasional slaver. She has accomplished this feat through judicious use of the 'run away fast' tactic, occasionally including the 'hide quietly' strategy for variety. It is possible that crimes have been committed using potions or poisons she has sold, but J'Freija maintains that she cannot be held responsible for how her patrons might use her wares.
Curious, friendly, and morally neutral, J'Freija loves to learn, discover, and meet new people. Her habit of trusting first in an effort to makes friends and companions has worked against her more often than not, but despite that she continues to try.
Kilbrox The Wandered
He stands at a solid 6'8" with hundreds of pounds of ugly, raw muscle. A graying, black topknot rests at the back of his head, thick and heavy with victory. His face is scarred, burned and beat up, half a tusk is missing and the other looks a little crooked, wide and sharp. His nose has a scar across the left nostril and a chunk missing from the other. A thick mass of graying beard hangs down from his jaws, covering the lower half of his face like a mask (and good lord does he ever need a mask).
His chest is broad like a wall with dark, yellow-green skin. His torso is as pock-marked and scarred as the rest. Slightly sun-faded tribal tattoos cover his right arm, telling the story of his birth, life and eventual death at the hands of a younger, stronger warrior - the only death he's deemed worthy.
Your Story So Far:
Orsinium born and military raised, Brox has traveled all across Tamriel. His father and mother were both under the employment of the Imperial Army, his mother as a smith and father as a soldier. He grew up around all sorts of peoples and different lifestyles and took to reading and writing during the long travels to new places. He'd always loved learning and was quite the large child - of course being an Orc among the other races carries that advantage almost inherently.
Kilbrox joined the army as he came of age, at first as a smith to honor his mother's memory and then a soldier to honor his father's. He was a natural. It helped that he'd been training with his father since he could wrap his fingers around the puny Imperial blades that were all about their domicile. Of course, every chance his mother got she would teach him all she knew of smithing orichalcum. She'd made many a special armor using a blending technique mixed with Imperial and Orcish smithing styles for officers, he always paid close attention.
In the wake of his parent's deaths he held no bitterness, it was their time and they had become weak no matter how strong they were his entire life...he knew that he would grow weak too one day. So with that in mind he kept both his mind and body both as strong as he could get them.
After leaving the military, he found a temporary home among the Orcish stronghold at Dushnikh Yal. He enjoyed the harsh climate of the North and the equally harsh temperament of the people, as well as the abundance of Orcs in various strongholds.
With his various brotherhoods held closely in his heart Kilbrox The Wandered travels the North in search of battle and knowledge.
Brox is, as most orcs are, a skilled smith. Mainly he works with Orichalchum, but has some experience working with steel as well. That's just something he's always done, but his true passion...is war. He has practiced with and is quite proficient with just about anything that has a blade. That isn't to say he's a master of everything, but if it as has a blade he's probably killed someone with it. He never cared too much for hammers or maces, but has been known to employ their use in a pinch. Both two and one-handed weapons are home to him.
As well, he is moderate with a bow, but would never use one in battle. Bow hunting is purely for sustenance.
Over his left shoulder he wears a mass of leather and orichalchum plating down to the gauntlet. The knuckles are steel bars with plating that runs down the fingertips, with a large plate on the back of the hand. This thick brassard is strapped across his broad chest, a metal ring of orichalcum hangs in the very center of the chest, with the leather bindings attached to it, keeping his armor firmly in place. Brox wears a metal-and-leather skirt with chain underneath on his midsection, his own take on the Imperial Armor, plate runs down into his thick, plated boots. A thick leather sash wraps around his midsection to carry gold and other such things. Animal bones and feathers are fastened to it as trophies, the same with the leather band around his right wrist.
There's a large, intricate sheath on his back holding a very large, strangely colored blade. His own take on the Nord's two-hander, a thick claymore made with orichalcum and steel both, it's an ash grey with a crude leather binding on the long handle. This sword is as much a part of him as his heart or his hands.
Brox carries a travelling bag over one shoulder with smithing tools, various journals, charcoal sticks, books and warmer clothing.
Veteran of various skirmishes and wars, a practiced and well-trained smith that prides himself on quality. He has spilled blood in almost every province and lived to tell the tale.
Most people don't really care to ask an Orc's opinion on things, but if they do...this particular Orc enjoys discussing all sorts of topics like philosophy and politics, history is another big one for him. He enjoys talking with people, though few will truly have an unbiased conversation with an Orc. He's, of course, loyal, but he knows his place in the North is one that's wary. He respects the Nords and their fight against the Empire, but disagrees with the methods. He values strength over all else, but knows to look in other places besides the sword. Brox will fight for anything he deems worthy, but will only follow those that can prove themselves strong.